<78y JAMES COLWELL 




Glass \ •£ _ 

Book-_.__ _k9 _ 

2 « 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



/ 














1 





AFTER THE BALL A RENCO PRODUCTION 

“Mr. Tom!” Eve demanded, “why haven’t you any little 
babies of your own ?” 


—See Page 294 




AFTER THE BALL 


By James Colwell 1 

A Romance Youth 




/ 


ILLUSTRATED 

with scenes from the photoplay 
“AFTER THE BALL " 
as produced by 

Renco Film Company 


From the widely popular song-story of the same name 


by Charles K, Harris . 

COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY f 
RENCO FILM COMPANY ^ 


Published by 

The TIMES-MIRROR Press 
Los Angeles, California 









\ 


APR-8'24 v ' 

i 

© CU 777853(U 

< 




AFTER THE BALL 

PRODUCED BY 

RENCO FILM COMPANY 

DIRECTED BY 

DALLAS M. FITZGERALD 

SCENARIO BY 

JAMES COLWELL 

Adapted from the famous song-story by 
CHARLES K. HARRIS 


CAST: 


LORRAINE TREVELYAN. Miriam Cooper 

ARTHUR TREVELYAN. Gaston Glass 

GILDA GAY. Edna Murphy 

TOM STEVENS. Robert Frazier 


y 




























































































































K \ 



























































































































































* 























AFTER THE BALL 

CHAPTER I 


AS THE DOOR of the dance hall swung open, 
^ the harmonies erupted by Nigger Joe’s Jazz 
Orchestra echoed through the street. 

Weird wailings from the tenor saxophone crashed 
against the nearby windows, that stared back at the 
resort with sophisticated familiarity. Lulling the 
other players into a diminuendo of a minor melody, 
the clarinetist crooned a nocturne of the Congo, 
to be halted unheard under the cacophony of sound. 

Now the artist at the drums and traps had come 
into his frenzied own. Cat-calls; the skirl of a 
fife; the blood-throb of the banjo-thumper, all 
mingled in a pulsing, primitive rhythm which re¬ 
verted alluringly to a jungle night and the beat of 
a tom-tom; while faintly distinct, as of an under¬ 
tone, came the shuffle of the dancing feet moving 
faster, faster— 

The street, hidden away in a part of Los Angeles 
untouched by the city’s mushroom growth, turned 
an aloof shoulder to the revelry in Nigger Joe’s. 
Its dark warehouses were uncompromising in their 
gloom, while a few dimly lit lodging-houses were in 
forlorn contrast to the gayety of the dance-hall. 
They were too accustomed to the frivolities of the 
resort’s patrons, to be aroused now by the arrival 
of a taxicab which disgorged its passengers before 
the door of Nigger Joe’s. 


6 


After the Ball 


Thump on your tom-tom, Ethiop. Give that 
slide trombone man more elbow room. Rattle your 
castanets, at the drums and traps. Strut your 
berries, dancers, and smile with your teeth, Nigger 
Joe. . . . Here comes new money! 

First to emerge from the cab was young Arthur 
Trevelyan, son of the retired oil capitalist whose 
name on the Coast was synonymous with the first 
great expansion of the California petroleum 
industry. 

The youth, still in his verdant early twenties, 
revealed to those who had opportunity to compare 
the two, many of the characteristics which had made 
Old Man Mark Trevelyan dominant in his world. 
There was the same dash; the same disregard of 
obstacles and difficulties was apparent in his actions; 
the easy ability, by means of an attractive smile and 
a personality which commanded affection, to win 
the' friendship of those with whom he came in con¬ 
tact, were Arthur Trevelyan’s equally as they were 
his father’s. 

But where the traits which the boy had inherited 
had been tempered in the father with a balance and 
a determination of purpose directed always to the 
practical goal of achievement, in the boy these same 
energies had been diverted aimlessly to the pursuit 
of good times, and the enjoyment of the luxuries 
that stirred his senses. The same smile which had 
done much to win millions for the father, was too 
ready to win companions for Arthur who were 
willing to acquiesce in anything he suggested, so 
long as they helped him spend his money. 


After the Ball 


7 


Of the laughing, flirtatious, frolicking group to 
whom Arthur, as usual, was playing host, there was 
one whose interest went deeper and farther than in 
his capacity as a provider of riotous entertainment. 
And now, as he turned from consultation of the 
taximeter to help her from the car to the sidewalk, 
it was apparent that the girl’s concern was more in 
him than in the fact that he was Old Man Trevel¬ 
yan’s son. 

Gilda Gay was a show-girl gone into the movies. 
Her press notices told that she had won instant 
recognition in her screen career, as soon as she had 
been discovered by her ubiquitous director, who had 
persuaded her parents to allow her to leave her 
convent and become famous via the silver-sheet. 
Part of . these statements were true. It was correct 
that she had been in a convent; but her biographers 
had neglected to state that the institution had been 
a haven for parentless waifs, and that Gilda had 
broken away from parochial control, in response to 
an indefinite ambitious urge. The press agents had 
neglected also to mention that her climb to fame 
had led her first to cabaret, then to the chorus, next 
a brief period with a real Broadway opening, when 
her dreams seemed about to be realized, then to a 
road show, and last, to Los Angeles, where, the 
road show disbanding, it was she who had done 
the persuading, and had begun motion picture work 
by intermittent and uncertain employment as an 
“extra.” 

Gilda, naturally, was pretty. A cameraman had 
told her not untruly that she “screened like a mil¬ 
lion dollars.” There was an ethereal quality to 


8 


After the Ball 


her natural blondness, which was particularly ap¬ 
pealing when contrasted with calico and homespun 
in the “westerns” for which she usually had been 
engaged. 

But what the camera lens had failed to depict, 
and what Arthur Trevelyan recently had begun to 
realize, was that the chief ingredient of Gilda’s 
beauty was derived from the greater beauty of her 
soul—a fearless, clean-thought view-point of the 
world, which asked of it no favors but only the right 
to make her way in it without the compromise of 
guile—a personage whose inner self would have 
rejoiced the hearts of the Sisters who had sheltered 
her. 

She paused now as Arthur, surrounded by his 
companions, started to lead the way into Nigger 
Joe’s. Her deterring hand on his arm brought him 
to a stop. 

“Please, dear, be careful. Not too much,” she 
murmured, hoping to be unheard by the others. 

But Dumplings Haniford, leaning on the arm of 
her escort, caught the remark. 

“ ‘Careful ?’ What do you mean, ‘be careful’ ? 
Arthur’s always careful, aren’t you, Arthur? 
Never dropped a bottle yet, ever since he was a 
baby.” 

Her companion, Harry Maghan, an ineffectual, 
half-developed, prematurely old young man of 
twenty-eight or thirty, boomed in laughter at her 
sally. 

“My, my, Dumplings—” and the street echoed 
with his words—“what a clever, clever child you 


After the Ball 


9 


Dumplings was flattered. 

“Clever as a cleaver/’ she retorted. The group, 
which now had reached the entrance to the dance 
hall, repeated Harry’s responding chortle. Then: 

“Who’s got the bottles?” 

“Don’t worry, old deah. Not a drop wasted.” 

“Still time for a dance—an’ then we’ll all go 
home.” 

“Home ? Why speak of grief ?” 

“All right. Le’s go!” 

And through the doors, their edges discreetly 
padded to muffle the concatenation of jazz inside, 
passed young Arthur Trevelyan and Ms gang, the 
women with their cloaks carefully concealing their 
precious contraband burdens, the men with dinner 
coats bulging suspiciously over outlines which no 
one cared to question. 

In the entresol Gilda paused again. 

“Please, dear—remember the last time.” 

“Don’t be a sill,” Arthur replied sharply. Then 
as he noticed the fleeting expression of pain at her 
reaction to his words, he softened. 

“It’s all right, honey. I know just when to 
stop.” 

There was a glow of tenderness to his words 
which warmed Gilda. Grateful though she was, 
she realized that the phrase had been thrown more 
as a sop to her eagerness, rather than in acquiescence 
to her wishes, and her hand pressed his arm in a 
thankful gesture as they led the way into the dance 
hall. 

Either through some unaccountable oversight, or 
possibly because of a more sinister police attitude, 


10 


After the Ball 


the resort which Arthur and his gang had entered 
had remained a reversion to the type more frequent 
in the days of the Barbary Coast than in the post¬ 
prohibition era. Crowding the polished floor, 
packed so closely together that the more obvious 
dance evolutions were barred by their numbers, 
were scores of jostling, swaying devotees, in un¬ 
dulating response to the enticements of the barbaric 
chords. The room itself was devoid of adornment, 
and its only furniture was of practical and durable 
nature—bare tables, plain chairs, and glassware, 
guaranteed to withstand any usage except as of the 
missiles into which often they were turned. 

Above the tables, which fringed three sides of 
the dance floor, extended a balcony which had been 
partitioned off into semi-closed booths to offer an 
illusion of privacy. This balcony Nigger Joe 
cunningly had contrived to serve as a double means 
of increasing his profits—first, by offering seclusion 
to those who found romance capable of blossoming 
even here—and principally to serve as a vantage 
point to those sight-seeing groups who found in 
such a resort opportunity to whet their appetite for 
the bizarre. 

Over all—over the steaming, dance-frenzied 
throng on the floor—in little groups of twos and 
threes seated at the tables, and lingering under the 
frescoes of the balcony, was an indescribable 
mingled essence of stale drinks, tobacco smoke, face 
powder and cosmetics. 

Now, delighted with themselves for having 
reached so colorful a spot in which to culminate 
their night’s frolic, Trevelyan, Gilda, Dumplings 


After the Ball 


11 


Haniford, Harry Maghan and the others hailed 
boisterously the tables to which Nigger Joe him¬ 
self had brought them on the balcony. The party 
separated into groups, and flowed into the parti¬ 
tioned booths to the accompaniment of facetious 
references to the brass-plated private dining rooms, 
allusions to the regrettable lack of chaperons, 
elaborate ceremony in the proffering of flasks, and 
insistence on the virtues of each male individual’s 
bootlegger. 

Gilda and Arthur found themselves at the balcony 
rail. As she stood, fascinated, looking downward 
at the spectacle of the beetle-like bodies in turmoil 
on the dance floor, Arthur drew her aside behind 
the shelter of a half-drawn curtain. 

“Just once,” he pleaded. 

Gilda was dismayed. 

“Not here—not with all these people.” 

They hastily drew away as the waiter entered. 
His task was a simple one, for his list of viands was 
nil, and his beverages consisted of only two varie¬ 
ties, ginger ale and near-beer. The management, 
aware that its patrons brought “their own,” was 
content to reap its profit in the exorbitant prices 
charged for the two commodities. 

Arthur protested at the meagerness of the choice. 

“Can’t you fix us up with a little something? 
Want to save what I’ve got,” he explained. 

The waiter shook his head in automatic response 
to the incessant question of the day. 

“Make it a beer, then,” Arthur ordered, and then 
as a new distraction offered itself, he turned to 
Gilda. 


12 


After the Ball 


“Listen! It’s our favorite.” 

The orchestra had begun, crooningly, insinuat¬ 
ingly, a dance rhythm which would have amazed 
the pioneers of the ragtime period with which the 
cabaret craze had been born. Gone now were the 
blaring, blatant melodies, the simplified rhythms of 
the adolescent one-step and grotesque turkey trot. 
In their place had crept subtle insinuations of a music 
which hints things that stir subconsciously in quick¬ 
ened pulses, which whispers vague invitations that 
quicken the breath and part the lips—which brings 
the dancers cheek to cheek, with eyes half-closed 
gleaming into answering eyes—which sways bodies 
in unison to the glide and shuffle of tiny dance steps. 

Thus now were Gilda and Arthur responding to 
the harmonies in the few feet of space between their 
table and the rail. Dancers below, their attention 
momentarily attracted from their own intricacies, 
smiled up in fellowship at the visitors from another 
sphere. . . . Slummy O’Grady and the Slum¬ 

ming Lady are sisters under the din. 

In an adjoining booth Dumplings Haniford and 
Harry Maghan leaned perilously over the rail to 
peer at Gilda and Arthur. Separated by the parti¬ 
tion, the two couples laughed with the fun of it all. 

“Isn’t it the Ritz?” cried Dumplings. “Got any¬ 
thing to drink? Harry’s gone dry.” 

Arthur offered his flask, an ingenious contrivance 
of a battery of miniature bottles and nested cups, 
around the partition. 

At that time the waiter returned. Gilda wel¬ 
comed his arrival as an opportunity to divert Arthur 
from his more potent fluid. 


After the Ball 


13 


“Let’s try it, dear,” she urged. 

“Anything once,” said Arthur, under the glow 
once more of being hospitable to his friends—but 
as he put the glass of innocuous brew to his lips, 
he grimaced and rejected it. With humorous curi¬ 
osity he inspected the bottle and read aloud its 
guaranty of non-alcoholic innocence. 

“That stuff’s not meant to drink, but just to sell,” 
he decided. 

Still holding the bottle loosely in the hand which 
he had placed around Gilda’s waist, he swung her 
back into the beat of the banjo. They gravitated 
toward the railing. Leaning far to one side in a 
newly discovered shading to the dance, his hand 
holding the bottle extended over the dancers on the 
floor below. The bottle tilted. 

Directly beneath Arthur’s booth were two of 
Nigger Joe’s favorite habitues—she buxom, 
florid, vivacious, and one of the chief attractions for 
his male customers—her companion an oil well 
rigger, whose tanned face and muscled frame were 
in virile contrast to the allurement of his dancing 
partner. 

The rigger’s grin grew wider as his companion 
introduced a convulsive shudder into their dance. 
Her shoulders moved as if in ecstatic reaction to the 
tonal stimulant. 

“Atta baby,” he murmured ardently. 

The expression of the woman changed from 
dreamy languor into one of alarmed surprise. 
Her eyes opened, startled. Her feet lost time to 
the music, and in moving to regain her poise, a 
sharp French heel was implanted on his toes. 


14 


After the Ball 


On the balcony, Gilda and Arthur swayed un¬ 
dulating to the music. The bottle in Arthur’s hand 
was tilted farther, and from its mouth poured a 
thin stream. 

Suddenly the rigger’s lady gazed upward with 
horrified realization. The rigger, following her 
glance, was first astonished, then indignant at the 
affront he saw, for here was a bimbo in a soup and 
fish pouring near-beer down his partner’s decollete 
back! 

Pandemonium followed. 

“He can’t do that to any lady friend of mine,” 
the rigger bellowed to the world at large. Not 
waiting to observe the punctilio of an excuse for 
leaving his companion, he darted toward the stair¬ 
way. Nigger Joe, from his strategic position in 
the rear of the room, saw that something was amiss, 
and followed. The lady of the beer-drenched gown 
seized at her chance for fame and screamed. 

“I’ve been insulted!” she cried, half proudly. 
Feminine friends gathered to her aid, while their 
escorts, gallant and truculent, followed the rigger’s 
lead. 

First the rigger, then Nigger Joe, then the 
rank and file, rushed up the stairs. 

Harry Maghan, intent on bearing libation from 
his booth to that of Arthur, was first to meet the 
onslaught, but was brushed ruthlessly aside, unable 
to respond to the rigger’s demand of: “Where’s the 
bird that poured the beer?” 

Halted in their dance by the untoward cessation 
of the music, Arthur and Gilda turned toward the 
booth entrance at the sound of the approaching at- 


After the Ball 


15 


tack. There was no time for parley. Thrusting 
away the restraining grasp of Nigger Joe, the 
rigger forced his way into the booth. Arthur, un¬ 
aware of the cause of the turmoil, immediately 
realized his predicament, and that especially of 
Gilda. They were cornered. 

The impending crisis clarified his senses. 

“Quick! This way!” he guided, and swung her 
nearer to the rail. 

As the rigger rushed toward him, Arthur grasped 
the table, turned it on its side, and shoved it at his 
opponent. The latter, unprepared for these tactics, 
stopped unconsciously to rub a barked shin, and the 
delay gave Arthur his opportunity. 

“Harry! Blondy! All of you! Get the girls 
out! Quick!” 

In the confusion Dumplings screamed. 

“Oh, Harry!” she wailed; “save me!” 

Arthur lifted Gilda in his arms, swung one leg 
astride the railing, and then with one foot locked 
in the woodwork, leaned far forward. The timber 
creaked ominously. The rigger, struggling to right 
the upturned table and get it out of his way, called 
venomous threats to Trevelyan, that detractor of 
womankind. 

With Gilda’s arms clinging around his neck, 
Arthur shifted his grasp, and with straining muscles 
lowered her, holding her suspended over the floor. 
By this time Maghan, the other men, and the girls 
of the party had executed a flank movement and 
had managed to pass behind the throng which was 
gathered outside the entrance to Arthur’s booth. 
Half laughing, half in hysterical fear, the quondam 


16 After the Ball 

revellers ran pell-mell down the stairs and reached 
the floor. 

Arthur’s wrists were tortured with the strain as 
slowly, carefully, he let Gilda’s arms slip through 
his grasp until their. hands clenched, yet still not 
daring to allow her to drop. 

The grating of the table behind him along the 
floor sounded warning that the rigger had over¬ 
come the barricade. 

He stole a hurried glance backward to his enemy, 
then anxiously turned again toward the dance floor. 
Behind him came wrangling threats: 

“Let go of me—I’ll get him!” 

“Behave yourself, white man,” Nigger Joe was 
replying. “You’ll have us all in the hoosegow.” 

Arthur called to Harry and Blondy: 

“Here, you two, catch her! Hurry.” The men 
ran forward as Arthur felt his grasp loosening. 
Their upstretched arms were within a few inches of 
Gilda’s feet. 

“Look out!” warned Arthur. He swung his 
burden sideways and then let go. 

As in a dream Gilda felt herself drop dizzily in 
the brief descent. Then, bombarded with anxious 
queries as to the extent of her injuries, she found 
herself again on firm ground, and giving hysterical 
assurances that she was unharmed. 

Another moment and Arthur, already half way 
over the rail, had parried a blow that had more in¬ 
tensity than aim, and had dropped beside the others. 

Then before the onlookers who had remained on 
the dance floor had time to realize that this highly 


After the Ball 


17 


entertaining episode was at an end, Arthur, his arm 
around Gilda, led the way toward the door. The 
others brushed through the throng, jostled each 
other in their eagerness to pass through the swing¬ 
ing doors, and found themselves once more upon 
the sidewalk and in safety. 


CHAPTER II 


“ll/TY, my, my, Arthur!” Harry Maghan’s 
booming words re-echoed through the 
deserted streets. “What a splendid fellow you are! 
Such courage! Such cleverness, and at a time like 
this! You were superb, my boy, simply superb!” 

The group, still flushed with the excitement of 
their escapade, paused for breath as the doors of 
Nigger Joe’s closed behind them. Though the 
approach of a milk wagon as it rounded the corner 
told of the waning darkness, their night was still 
young. Ahead were possibilities of finding some 
secluded “club” where they might still dance, of 
arriving simultaneously with the dawn for a day¬ 
break supper, of spurring their jaded muscles with 
a splash into some private outdoor swimming 
plunge, before sleepiness overcame them. 

These roisterers were not on a “spree,” an 
occasional party to be experienced with a desperate 
deliberation to make a wild time of it. Theirs was 
not an intention to store up memories which might 
serve as a fund for anecdotes or a series of “do you 
remembers.” Instead, Trevelyan, Haniford, Mag- 
han and their associates found nothing abnormal 
in their mode of entertainment. Nothing mattered. 
Their reactions to sensations were casual. Living 
for the moment, situations such as they had encoun¬ 
tered in the dance-hall were to be met in a hap¬ 
hazard, devil-may-care manner. After them, the 
deluge. 


After the Ball 


19 


Even their view-point toward each other was an 
impersonal one, and this condition remained true as 
between the men and women. The romance of boy 
and girl had long since been drained of any experi¬ 
mental thrill. 

Gilda, of course, was an outsider. 

The sharp interruption of scuffling figures which 
lurched through the swinging doors brought them 
from self-congratulatory amusement at their adven¬ 
ture back to realization of a new crisis. 

With Nigger Joe struggling to hold him by 
one arm, and the resort’s bouncer restraining him 
with difficulty by the other, the oil-well rigger was 
striving determinedly to reach the bimbo in the 
soup and fish who had poured beer down the danc¬ 
ing lady’s back. 

Dumplings Haniford was first to see him. 

“Quick, Harry, get a taxi,” she warned. “Re¬ 
member, the last time you all got pinched you got a 
suspended sentence, and you know what that means 
if you get in a fight again.” 

Harry looked around for the taxi starter, to 
which person usually he entrusted these minor 
details. He even raised a commanding finger in 
the hope that an official in gold braid and buttons 
would materialize. Unfortunately, even the night 
hawk drivers by this time were respectably in bed. 

Save for the loaded milk wagon, whose driver 
had disappeared down an area-way on his round 
of back-door visits, the street was empty of vehicles. 
Arthur, until now an amused and disinterested spec¬ 
tator, noticed the wagon and was lured by the 
charm of a fresh novelty. 


20 


After the Ball 


“Here’s our taxi, children,” he announced. 

“What, a milk wagon?” came in remonstrance. 

“Certainly, you’ve been off the wagon long 
enough.” 

From the doorway Nigger Joe called a warning. 

“You-all better beat it,” he admonished. “This 
man’s rarin’ to go and a fight’s what he craves 
nothin’ else but.” 

Arthur sensed the wisdom of the advice. 

“Take your choice,” he offered, “a left punch or 
a milk punch.” 

He motioned toward the wagon and swung Gilda 
into his arms to accelerate the others. 

Harry, with Dumplings, followed his example. 

“All right,” agreed Blondy, “let’s take a joy-ride 
on the Milky Way.” 

So with Gilda and Arthur in the lead, some of the 
others running childlike hand in hand, and with 
Harry Maghan struggling unsuccessfully to retain 
his dignity while Dumplings tugged at his arm to 
hurry him, the embryo milkmen hurried to the 
wagon. 

Nigger Joe chuckled at the unusual mode of 
departure from his saloon. 

“ ’At’ll be some milk-shake,” he said. 

The rigger, as disgusted as would have been Don 
Quixote if his windmills had run away from him, 
smiled sourly. “Sure thing,” he replied, “with a 
bunch of eggs like that.” 

With elaborate gravity Arthur and Harry were 
disputing each other’s fitness to occupy the driver’s 
seat. Harry insisted that familiarity with pictures 
of English coaching fitted him for the post. Arthur 







s. 


s 




















- 












E 

- r 

tv 

■ . 

■ 









































* 








































. 






- " 




































After the Ball 


21 


countered with the reminder that the only thing 
Harry had driven was a golf ball, and that he usually 
sliced into the rough, at that. During the argument 
the others had found precarious seats on the tops of 
milk cans, on the side-boards, with their legs 
dangling over the edges, and one adventurous soul 
had mounted postilion-like the grey mare on the 
nigh side of the team. 

Gilda solved the difficulty. 

“Tell you what,” she suggested to Harry, “you 
and Dumplings can have your own private seat in 
back, like the rear platform of an observation car.” 

Harry beamed benevolently. 

“Dear, dear, dear Gilda! Who said women were 
beautiful but dumb?” 

Harry swung Dumplings to the floor board at the 
rear of the wagon and clambered up beside her. 
Similarly Arthur elevated Gilda to the position of 
honor beside the driver. He grasped the reins, 
flourished the lash with a whipcrack worthy of a 
master of the Brighton post road, and the lumbering 
horses ambled off at a slow trot. 

“Tallyho!” cried Harry from the rear of the 
wagon. 

“Yoicks!” called Blondy, who vaguely remem¬ 
bered having read the word in connection with the 
description of a fox hunt or something; and the 
gang was on its way. 

At the back door of a lodging house the milkman 
paused, startled, while in the act of gathering the 
empty bottles. The clatter of horse-hoofs on the 
asphalt rang alarmingly in his ears. The informa¬ 
tion the sound conveyed was unbelievable, yet un- 


22 


After the Ball 


mistakable; for the first time in its fourteen years 
of service his team was moving on without him. 

In his astonishment he absent-mindedly placed 
the full bottles he was about to deliver carefully 
with the tray of empties, and with equal care re¬ 
placed the other empty bottles in their position on 
the door sill. The hoof beats were resounding 
from a greater distance, and the milkman ran. 
When he reached the street he was just in time to 
see the departing wagon, with as strange a load as 
never came from a dairy, swing round the corner 
from whence he came. 

The milkman bellowed hoarsely. Only the 
laughter of a girl came in response. With two hun¬ 
dred gallons of milk at stake, and the whole wide 
city in which to pursue his quarry, the milkman fol¬ 
lowed, his short legs trying inadequately to meet the 
speed to which he urged them. 


Trevelyan, Senior, swung open the front door of 
his home and stepped out onto the terrace. The 
early morning sun revealed a short, stocky, hale old 
duffer whose white hairs belied the youthfulness 
and vigor with which he greeted the crisp atmos¬ 
phere of dawn. 

He was attired in flannel shirt and knickers, with 
golf shoes and hose. Tentatively he hefted the golf- 
bag he was carrying. His bristly white mustache 
lifted with satisfaction at the early summer pano¬ 
rama which spread, sparkling in the clearness, of 
the sun, before him. 


After the Ball 


23 


From his position, on a broad expanse of terrace 
which skirted a residence built against the foothills, 
he viewed, as of a progression of receding steps, a 
sweep of cottage roof-tops extending to the valley 
beyond. Red, blue, orange, white, buff and vari- 
tinted walls dotted the landscape beneath the roofs, 
from the chimneys of several of which thin plumes 
and spirals of smoke were beginning to ascend. 
For miles before him spread the residential part of 
the city where he lived. 

Beyond, on a distant plateau, a forest of oil-well 
derricks jutted against the sky-line. From each of 
these, he would have figured had not the idea be¬ 
come too familiar for repetition, flowed a stream of 
dividend-paying petroleum. Beyond these were dis¬ 
tant vistas of acreage, already browned by the sun, 
on which shrewd realty promoters held options 
against the time when the growth of the city should 
have converted them into marketable home-sites. 

Away off to the west, an azure ribbon against the 
sky, stretched the Pacific, its surface broken by the 
rare sight of the islands made visible by the crystal 
clarity of the air. Behind him, whence came the 
pungent fragrant snap of chaparral and eucalyptus, 
were the rolling hills, extending to the sea. It was 
a land in which men were still winning an empire— 
a gambling board where stakes still were to be won 
by the highest hand. 

Trevelyan inhaled sharply as his imagination 
tingled with the stimulant of what he saw. Per¬ 
haps, he thought, he had retired too soon. Not for 
the money involved; he had enough of that, both 
for the boy and for Lorraine, the youngster’s 


24 


After the Ball 


younger sister. But before him lay fortunes still 
to be won, and a game which might have enticed his 
boy into taking a hand. Perhaps, if he had not 
given up his business quite so soon, he might have 
persuaded Arthur into becoming first a beginner, 
and then a partner, in the play— 

The purr of motor wheels on the drive broke his 
meditation. The car halted at the steps. Absently 
Trevelyan seated himself and the driver started his 
machine. The father’s thoughts reverted to the 
boy. The young sprout, now, had not come home 
the night before; Trevelyan had made note of that 
in Arthur’s empty room. Probably out dancing all 
night, out with that crowd of nit-wit boys and girls. 
Something must be done—the boy must not go 
wrong . . . 


The newsboy hurling his morning papers against 
the door sills, the iceman stopping spellbound as he 
stared at the sight of the commandeered milk wagon, 
the Japanese huckster who grinned uncomprehend- 
ingly as he opened his fruit store, all the early morn¬ 
ing servitors of civilization who witnessed the pro¬ 
cession of the profligates, could have told Trevelyan, 
Senior, what Arthur and the nit-wit crowd were 
doing. 

So also might have done the milkman, whose 
tired legs refused to carry him farther in pursuit of 
his pirated team, and who now hailed with reviving 
hope the motorcycle policeman who pulled up beside 
him. 


After the Ball 25 

“What’s the idea?” demanded the official. 
“Whatta you running from?” 

The milkman puffed for breath. 

“Not running from anything,” he managed to 
gasp. “I’m after ’em.” 

The officer queried again. 

“They—they stole my wagon,” explained the 
milkman. “Took two hundred gallons of my best 
Grade A milk.” 

The policeman saw visions of his name and photo¬ 
graph in the afternoon papers, with accounts of his 
capture of the desperate milk bandits after a run¬ 
ning gun fight. He demanded details, and the milk¬ 
man stammered out the route taken by the thieves. 

“I’ll get ’em,” pledged the policeman grimly, and 
he stepped on the gas. 


Gilda, still beside Arthur on the driver’s seat, 
raised her head from his shoulder and looked at 
him doubtfully. By this time the horses had re¬ 
fused to answer even the crack of the whip, and 
were moving at a sedate walk. Arthur smiled rosily 
at the world. It was a pretty good place, and every¬ 
one was happy. He glanced at Gilda to reassure 
himself of this fact. 

“Ain’t we got fun ?” he queried. 

Gilda hesitated. 

“Yes—but—but— 

Her reticent response was overheard. 

“But, yes, we have no bananas!” someone carolled. 

“We’ve got milk, though—gallons, and quarts, 
and pints, and cans, and gallons, and quarts, and—” 


26 After the Ball 

Harry’s statistical survey died in an overwhelming 
mass of detail. 

“Think we haven’t and you’re crazy,” commented 
Dumplings, happily. 

“Of course it’s fun,” Gilda continued. “But 
won’t it make more trouble for you? What about 
your father?” 

Arthur frowned in an endeavor to focus on a suit¬ 
able reply. He found it. 

“Sufficient for the evil is the father thereof. 
Isn’t that from Shakespeare?” 

Gilda subsided. It was fun, to be playing around 
all night with these boys and girls, who made her an 
associate without question of their relative social or 
financial rank. She knew that this acceptance of 
her came from indifference rather than a liberal at¬ 
titude; even so, it was more stimulating than her 
contact with the artificial, selfish element of the 
studio. And after all, her absence from these 
parties would not keep Arthur out of trouble; per¬ 
haps her presence sometime might serve to do so. 

But Arthur was rich, and she was poor. She had 
heard of such situations many times; had read of 
them, had played in them, in fact. What, she won¬ 
dered, was to be the outcome? None, probably. 
Somewhere some man had told her that things often 
never did reach a culmination; they just went out of 
existence unfinished. She wondered whether her 
association with Arthur would just expire like that, 
unfinished. Then the question which had been 
lurking insistently to spring upon her ever since she 
had met Arthur obtruded itself again, and this time 
demanded answer. 





After the Ball 


27 


Would Arthur care if things—well, if things were 
just to die? He had told her he loved her; had 
asked her to marry him. But she had not been sure 
then—sure either of whether he had meant his ques¬ 
tion, or of whether she had the right to yield to her 
affection for him. 

She had not found the words to express these 
doubts. She had been a starving soul hungering 
for expression, and balked by an intangible blanket 
of words which mocked at her and said things she 
did not mean. So she had learned to be chary in 
her use of them. 

Probably it was true that he would care a little. 
Probably too he would be just as happy in a little 
while if his father, for example, were to prevent 
their marriage. 

His father; what would he think of her? Not 
much, probably. Probabilities; questions. Any¬ 
thing was probable—and nothing. She wanted to 
do right—probably she wouldn’t. Questions—in¬ 
visible interrogation points that came as she had 
lain awake in the night. 

Like wind dispelling a mist came the clatter of 
iron-shod hoof-beats on the street, monotonous, reg¬ 
ular, cheerful, to drive introspective ideas away. 
She was here—here beside Arthur. These others 
with her asked no questions of tomorrow. They 
took things as they came, and were happy. Why 
not she? 

As if in answer to the final query came Arthur’s 
hand, freed from the reins, stealing into her own 
with a comforting pressure. She glanced upward 
again at him. 


28 


After the Ball 


“Happy, dear?” 

She nodded. Yes. Well, maybe. Anyway, here 
she was. 

Through the placid layer of bibulous velvet with 
which Arthur had coated himself penetrated one 
thought. Here he was with this girl whom he 
loved. He had not thus expressed it to himself be¬ 
fore, but now suddenly he told himself that she was 
different. Indeed, she seemed so. To hold her 
hand was not merely a casual caress. It was as if 
they two shared something much finer and emotional 
than a handclasp. She was sweet, too. 

He found himself gazing downward into her eyes, 
which filmed with a tenderness that made itself felt 
in him. There was a childlike appeal in her glance. 
Why, she was in love with him! How could he 
hurt her by failing to return that love? A fleeting 
image of her eyes as if drawn in wounded heart¬ 
ache passed through his mind. To erase it he 
leaned forward hastily and kissed her. 

Dumplings ITaniford bestirred herself on the rear 
seat to see how near home she was, and glimpsed 
the spectacle of the meeting lips. She shouted. 

“Ain’t Nature grand!” she mocked. “Lemme be 
a bridesmaid!” 

The interruption came just as the wagon had 
reached an intersection of the avenue with one of 
the main highways. Arthur, startled, pulled his 
arm away from Gilda’s waist; and the same motion 
unconsciously moved the hand in which he held the 
reins. His loose grasp allowed one of the leathers 
to slip through his fingers. The resultant tug at the 


After the Ball 29 

line pulled sharply on the horses’ bits, and they 
swerved abruptly to one side. 

At that moment along the intersecting highway 
approached an automobile, its spotless custom-built 
body glittering in the sun. In the rear seat an 
elderly man, attired in golfing flannels, half rose 
with a shout of warning to the driver. The warn¬ 
ing came too late. 

As the horses, answering Arthur’s tug at the 
reins, swung over to the wrong side of the road, 
the auto driver tried desperately, with screeching of 
brakes and hard-flung wheel, to avert the impending 
collision. Almost he succeeded; but not quite. 

To the accompaniment of feminine screams of 
fear and ineffectual shouts of advice from masculine 
throats, there was a crash as the fender of the auto 
struck the milk-wagon. The blow was a glancing 
one; the left fore wheel of the milk wagon was 
sheared off neatly; and the heavy load in the body 
of the wagon toppled into the street. 

Arthur, clinging to the one rein still in his grasp, 
tried vainly to quiet the plunging, fear-maddened 
horses. The clatter of their hoofs mingled with 
the tinkle of breaking bottles, and clang and jangle 
of the milk cans, as they dropped from the wagon- 
bed to the asphalt, bounced on the hard paving, and 
spilled their chalky contents in a miniature flood. 
The chauffeur, more cool-headed than the others, 
leaped from his seat and ran to seize the bridles of 
the horses. 

Miraculously escaping alike the flying hoofs of 
the team and the bits of flying bottle-glass, Gilda, in 


30 


After the Ball 


the first crash of the collision, had slid gently with 
the collapse of the wagon to the street, and had 
landed on her feet. Arthur, not so fortunate, found 
himself seated on the pavement in the midst of a 
rivulet of milk still pouring from a capsized can 
nearby. Dumplings, Harry, Blondy and the others 
had been scattered indiscriminately with the debris, 
and were gingerly testing arms and legs to make 
sure they had survived the impact. 

From the rear seat of the automobile, spluttering 
with combined wrath and concern for the possible 
injuries to the odd freight of the milk-wagon, 
descended the elderly golfer, his white hair and 
mustache bristling with excitement. 

“Who—where—what’s the meaning of all this?” 
he demanded generally. 

First to confront him was a slip of a girl, her 
blonde hair still lovely despite the disarray of her 
tumble. Breathless and nerve-shattered from the 
crash, she nevertheless essayed to answer. 

“Oh! I’m—we’re so sorry! Did we damage 
your car?” 

The elderly man glared. His cheeks puffed as 
he withheld the only reply that struggled for expres¬ 
sion. Incoherent sputterings followed as the man 
stared at the wreckage of human and lacteal freight. 

Arthur, his attention for the moment wholly con¬ 
cerned with the annoying moisture of his milk- 
drenched clothes, was diverted by the sound of 
voices. As from a distance came sounds in a key 
that was elusively familiar. Somewhere, somehow, 
he had heard such sputterings before. Then, more 


After the Ball 


31 


easily definable, Gilda’s attempts to assuage the 
golfer’s anger penetrated to Arthur’s consciousness. 

Stiffly he arose. Aside from bruises and a gen¬ 
eral impression that the whole world reeled and 
tilted as he gained his feet, he found himself unin¬ 
jured. Struggling bravely to pull himself together 
and quell the mutiny of his wobbling knees, he made 
his way around the wagon to the place whence 
ensued the sputterings. 

Gilda, he saw, was trying courageously to dam 
the torrent of words coming from the passenger in 
the auto. The latter’s back was turned to Arthur; 
but in the attitude of the shoulders, the carriage of 
the snowy head, the very belligerence of the gesticu¬ 
lating arms, were danger signals which Arthur 
would have heeded had it not been for the appeal 
for aid in Gilda’s face as she glanced at him over 
the other’s shoulder. But Arthur was intent only 
on coming to Gilda’s rescue. He stepped closer. 

“Fm awfully sorry, sir,” he offered. “If there’s 
anything we can do—” 

Confident in his ability to find words which would 
adjust the difficulty, Arthur paused. At the inter¬ 
ruption the elderly man pivoted sharply on his heel 
to seek a new victim for attack—one more worthy 
of his anathema. He opened his mouth, but no 
words came, not even splutterings. For once Mark 
Trevelyan faced a situation for which he had no 
phrases. He stared; he blinked, and stared again. 
Then he shook his head to drive away the effects of 
the hallucination, but the figure which filled him 
with astonished awe was still materialized. 


32 


After the Ball 


Before him—with collar under one ear, shirt- 
front escaping from the confines of the waistcoat, 
and portions of the evening clothes metamorphosed 
into a pallid milky gray—Mark Trevelyan beheld 
his son. 

Just then the put-put of a motorcycle exhaust 
came volleying from the horizon, swelled into a 
crescendo of pistol-like reports, and ended in an 
abrupt stop as the cyclist halted beside the wreck. 
The glint of sun on a burnished badge was reflected 
into Mark Trevelyan’s eyes, and he blinked again. 
When he had recovered his sight it was to recognize 
beside his son the figure of a motorcycle policeman 
in uniform. 

“What’s the big idea?” queried the official. 
“You’re all under arrest.” 


CHAPTER III 


Mark Trevelyan, standing between his auto 
and the wreckage of the milk wagon, the 
words of the policeman came ominously, like an icy 
shower, to clear his head from the foggy astonish¬ 
ment of meeting Arthur Trevelyan in the role of 
chief culprit. The father gasped for breath. 

“What—what did you say?” 

“I said you’re all pinched,” paraphrased the officer 
grimly. 

Trevelyan drew himself up to the full extent of 
his sixty-six inches. 

“What do you mean, sir!” he demanded. “It’s 
an outrage! Upon what charge?” 

As if running the gamut of the penal code, the 
policeman skated rapidly over the list of high crimes 
and misdemeanors of which the gathering was 
accused. 

“First, grand larceny,” he announced. “High¬ 
way robbery—reckless driving while intoxicated—” 
he glanced balefully at Arthur, whose jaw was 
drooping at realization of the enormity of his of¬ 
fenses—“exceeding the speed limit—” the nigh 
mare cocked an incredulous ear at this construction 
placed upon her leisurely gait—“peddling without a 
license, and—and—and disorderly conduct,” the of¬ 
ficer concluded lamely. 

The arrival of a flivver broke in upon the roll of 
indictments. From it descended the milkman, who 


34 After the Ball 

ran toward the group with accusatory finger pointed 
at Arthur. 

“There,” shouted the milkman. “There’s the one 
who done it. He ought to get ten years for it, too.” 

“Ten years!” Gilda, who had drawn closer to 
Arthur to lend him the moral support of her pres¬ 
ence, was dismayed. “Oh—they wouldn’t!” 

Her interjection was an unfortunate one, for it 
drew to her the milkman’s attention. His irate 
glance rested upon her evening attire, still a setting 
for her beauty, but emphasizing, in the bright sun¬ 
light, what seemed to the milkman the hollowness 
and sham of the society life. 

“It’s butterflies like you,” he denounced, “that’s 
the real cause of bolshevism and such. You’ll pay 
well for this, and it’s all Grade A milk.” 

At the word of payment, Old Man Trevelyan saw 
a solution to the difficulty. 

“Isn’t there some way we can fix this, officer?” 
he asked. 

The policeman showed the appropriate hesitancy. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he dissembled. “This 
young man—” and he indicated Arthur—“this 
young man faces pretty serious charges.” 

Trevelyan glared at his son. 

“Teach you a lesson if I did let him lock you up,” 
he told Arthur dourly. “Still—” 

The father reached into an inside pocket and 
fumbled surreptitiously with a bill-fold. 

“Here is my card, officer. If there is anything 
further, you’ll find me at that address.” 

The policeman, impressed with the numerals on 
the “card,” exhibited it to the milkman, who once 


After the Ball 


35 


more felt the milk of human kindness flow within 
him. The two withdrew, the policeman to resume 
his beat, and the tradesman to repair the ravages of 
the astonishing interlude which had brought him in 
such intimate and informal contact with an exist¬ 
ence which previously he had glimpsed only via the 
back door. 

Trevelyan, having once more regained composure 
through another demonstration of the efficacy of his 
money, again became dominant. He turned his at¬ 
tention to Arthur, who stood waiting, for all the 
world like a small boy caught in a peccadillo. Be¬ 
side his son the father observed the same young 
woman who had had the temerity to speak to him 
just after the collision. She was a blonde thing— 
nothing substantial to her—just one of these nit-wit 
boys and girls with whom his son was dissipating 
his youth away— 

Arthur sensed the disapproval in his father’s 
observation of Gilda. An errant spark of chivalry 
glowed for a moment, and he tried to place her in a 
less equivocal light. 

“Listen, Father,” he began, “let me tell you about 
it. This is Miss—” 

“I don’t want to hear who she is,” Trevelyan 
snapped. “Get in the car.” 

“But I can’t leave—” 

“Get in the car!” 

Arthur hesitated. He was unwilling to abandon 
Gilda so unceremoniously. 

Gilda placed a persuasive hand upon his arm. 

“Go, dear,” she whispered. “Don’t make him 
more bitter.” 


36 


After the Ball 


“Then I’ll ’phone you this evening,” Arthur re¬ 
plied, and stepped into the car. His father followed, 
and the door slammed. 

“See you in Sunday school,” Dumplings called. 

Trevelyan’s angry contempt was intensified by 
the flippant remark. He glanced sideways at his 
son, and was about to comment on it, then decided 
to save his words for home consumption. Arthur, 
chagrined, resentful, and yet a little ashamed of 
himself, sat staring at the driver’s neck, awaiting 
the storm which he knew was coming. 


Ever since her mother’s death, at a time when 
she had been a large-eyed, spindle-shanked young¬ 
ster, Lorraine Trevelyan had borne, seared in her 
memory, Mrs. Trevelyan’s parting admonition: 

“You’ll have to take my place, dear. Be a good 
housekeeper—help your father fight for his success 
—and love your brother for me.” 

For at the time that Lorraine and Arthur, he in 
close-brushed Norfolk jacket and knickers, with 
tear-stained cheeks which he strove with a boy’s em¬ 
barrassment to hide, she stricken numb with incom¬ 
prehension, with eyes dry-lidded, had watched Mrs. 
Trevelyan go, Mark Trevelyan was still in the tur¬ 
moil of desperate undertakings, with only uncer¬ 
tainty ahead. 

Those earlier days had been ones of grave respon¬ 
sibility for her. With the seriousness and intensity 
of adolescence, the double burden of abiding by her 
mother’s wish and of helping her father fight had 


After the Ball 


37 


meant for Lorraine the necessity of developing a 
poise and clear-thoughtedness which she was never 
to lose. 

There were times when Trevelyan, immersed in 
the intricacies of manipulating leaseholds, options, 
loans, and the juggling of credit to keep his whole 
pyramided structure from collapsing, would remain, 
seated at the kitchen table, for hours buried in a 
mass of figures and geological surveys. At such 
moments Lorraine, awe-struck with the fearsome¬ 
ness of the conflict in which her imagination de¬ 
picted her father, would marshal Arthur quietly 
from the room, careful lest they distract this hero 
of hers from his battle. 

Times, too, there were when Lorraine, seated 
upon the steps of their small cottage while her darn¬ 
ing needle struggled with the seemingly bridgeless 
gaps in Arthur’s stockings, would lay her house¬ 
work hastily aside to run and join him in conflict 
with some juvenile foe. Side by side they would 
fight, and hers were not the least of the blows 
struck. Then, come victory or defeat, their com¬ 
radeship would be replaced by her mother-instinct, 
and regardless of the jibes of the other youngsters 
on the block, carefully she would wipe his bloody 
nose and be ready to resume either fight or frolic. 

Out of this half-motherly, half-twinlike devotion 
of the girl for the boy had developed a dispassion¬ 
ate, yet poignantly tender affection between the two 
which had bridged the difference in their ages. 
Where Arthur was to be seen, there, too, was Lor¬ 
raine, usually a little in the rear, where she might 
at the same time watch his natural leadership among 


38 


After the Ball 


his companions, with the adoration of a younger sis¬ 
ter, and be prepared to exert the mothering upon 
which Arthur, even during his gawky period, came 
more and more to depend. 

Then, in the few short years which had seemed to 
pass overnight, came the oil. As if brought to a 
state of flux by the intensive fire of his energy, the 
schemes and machinations of Mark Trevelyan 
reached their climax, and out of them crystallized a 
wealth surpassing his dreams. 

Followed homes, servants, luxuries. Deprived 
now of the necessity of daily stratagems with the 
butcher and the grocer, Lorraine at first felt herself 
adrift. But still under the subconscious spur of ful¬ 
filling the destiny which her mother had chosen for 
her, her affection for her father and brother found 
an outlet in directing, with a wisdom beyond her 
years, the expenditure of the wealth which Trevel¬ 
yan lavished upon his children. 

Came finishing school, and colleges. The wrench 
of their first separation was assuaged through the 
long distance contact by which Lorraine still tried 
to be her brother’s alter ego. Disquieting rumors 
reached her of Arthur’s escapades at school; and as 
the expenses of his maintenance mounted, and as 
the over-drafts on his allowance became more re¬ 
current, Lorraine found herself taking up again a 
new phase of the old burden, that of acting as buffer 
between father and son. 

High lights—purple passages—during this period 
when the rough surfaces of their youth were being 
polished, were the Christmas vacations, the Easter 
holidays, and the summer jaunts all over the world, 


After the Ball 


39 


which brought the three of the family together. 
Trevelyan, having won his stake, had cashed in, and 
had safeguarded the proceeds with the utmost 
security which bankers and lawyers had been able 
to devise. Now, with no further active interest 
than in his quarterly income report, he had lapsed 
to a position of secondary importance so far as the 
advancement of the family was concerned, and 
except for his effort at restraint of Arthur’s excess 
of animation, allowed Lorraine to direct their com¬ 
ings and goings. 

London, Paris, Deauville during its season, the 
Riviera, saw the trio as familiar figures in which the 
devotion and affection between Lorraine and 
Arthur caused the more sophisticated of European 
observers to raise a skeptic eyebrow. Of course, it 
might be true that the young people were relatives, 
but who, my dear, ever saw a brother and sister so 
attentive to each other? 

Had the gossip-hungry doubters been more ob¬ 
servant, the striking resemblance between the two 
would have dispelled any question of ambiguity. 
Arthur’s darkness of hair and fairness of skin, the 
heritage of some Gaelic-Spanish ancestor, were re¬ 
flected in the somberness of Lorraine’s blue-black 
locks and the ivory pallor of her cheeks. The same 
blue eyes which with Arthur were twinkling 
windows of the happy-go-lucky spirit within, be¬ 
came in Lorraine deep ebony-fringed pools that 
hinted of depths that had not yet been plumbed. 

Alike, too, were their bodies. His massive frame 
and tall figure had their counterpart in Lorraine’s 
lithe slenderness. The spindle shanks had been 


40 


After the Ball 


transformed. She was like a Toledo blade. There 
was a rapier-like quality, cool to the touch, which 
was accentuated by the sheen of her exquisiteness. 

It was this suggestion of tempered steel held in 
its sheath, of reserve forces kept in leash beneath a 
poised and tranquil exterior, which had its biological 
unison with Arthur’s extravagances. With Arthur, 
freedom from economic restraint had meant a sur¬ 
plus of exuberance, with the tempering process still 
to be developed; with Lorraine, however, the rough 
metal already had been beaten upon the anvil; and 
the glory of the finished product was waiting in 
shimmering expectancy, albeit unconsciously, the 
test of the master mechanic. 

In this nascent period of Lorraine’s being, her al¬ 
most constant association with Arthur was respon¬ 
sible for her impersonal, ascetic attitude toward 
other men. She understood that impulses existed 
which impelled her would-be sweethearts to become 
ardent in their pursuit of her, but she recognized no 
answering stir within herself and regretted what 
seemed to be an unfortunate and annoying meta¬ 
morphosis that robbed her of likable acquaintances 
and substituted changeling swains. The flint had 
not yet struck the steel, though the tinder awaited 
the spark. 

Thus, serenely unaware of the potency of her 
transcendent beauty, she had been moved so far 
only by the abstract emotions of the mind, and she 
exuded an aura that hinted of a shadowed field lying 
fallow beside a snow-fed stream. 

Cool, also, were her rooms. Cool were the greens 
and blues of the few drapes and Chinese rugs; and 


After the Ball 


41 


cool were the filtered pools of sunlight that fell upon 
them, to blend restfully with the walls of softly 
tinted cream and buff. 

An economy of taste, remaining from that earlier 
period when ornaments meant dust, and dust meant 
labor, was reflected in the sparse furnishings of the 
lounge and bedroom which formed her quarters. 
The carefully chosen paintings, and the occasional 
objets d’art which transformed the rooms from 
bareness to a wholly feminine abode, were fragile 
and unobtrusively dainty. 

From the mullioned windows of her lounging 
room spread a vista of sun-baked meadows and land¬ 
scaped boulevards, stretching lazily to the sea, while 
beyond the French doors opening into her bedroom, 
so near that often it seemed that she might step out 
to them, were the hills—her hills that had given her 
many moments of breath-catching dashes astride a 
horse, or of peaceful solitudes in which she strolled 
along the trails winding among the chaparral and 
wild holly. 

A crisp tonic of mountain fragrance swept into 
the bedroom as the maid drew aside the portieres 
and allowed all of California seemingly to be en¬ 
compassed within the four walls. Lorraine awoke. 
There was a lilt on her lips as drowsily at first, and 
then with joyful reaction to the beauty of the pano¬ 
rama resting quiescent in the morning sun, she re¬ 
sponded to the happiness of being alive. 

From the service wing of the house the odor of 
bacon broiling on the coals brought her from a 
feline sense of luxurious laziness to a sharp reality 


42 


After the Ball 


of hunger. She turned to the maid, who had just 
stilled the flow of water for her bath, and asked: 

“Has father had his breakfast?” 

“Yes, Miss Lorraine—early,” replied the maid. 
“He left an hour ago, for the club.” 

“And Mr. Arthur? If he is awake, please ask 
him when he will be ready to breakfast with me.” 

During the icy plunge, and in the moments of 
dressing that followed, Lorraine’s thoughts came re¬ 
currently of Arthur. Recently, she knew, the group 
of young folk with whom he spent his time and 
money, had carried him into more and more fre¬ 
quent elaborations of jazz and its component parts. 
His was an attitude of sophistication and cynical dis¬ 
regard of consequences which was at variance with 
his former ingenuous delight in frolicking. There 
was one scrape—but of that she knew only a frag¬ 
mentary outline, for Mark Trevelyan had withheld 
from her the details, and Arthur, when questioned, 
had dissembled. 

“Mr. Arthur has not been home,” stated the maid, 
returning. “His bed has not been used.” 

Another all night party. This meant that 
Arthur, if he did come home that morning, would 
sleep until noon, and that her father, grumbling, 
would demand explanations which Arthur, sullen, 
would resent. 

As she finished dressing, and paused for a final 
glance in the mirror at the effect of her sports attire, 
Lorraine’s hope was that if only Arthur were to 
return before her father had finished his round of 
golf, she might be able to smuggle her brother into 
his room and to bed without having Trevelyan dis- 


After the Ball 43 

cover the signs of carousal that, she took for 
granted, would be conspicuous. 

As if in response to her hope, the sound of the 
opening and closing door in the foyer carried her 
eagerly to the balustrade in the up-stairs hall, from 
where she might glimpse the floor below. 

There she saw Arthur, downcast and sulky, stride 
out of sight into the library opening off the foyer. 

Behind him, to her dismay, Lorraine caught a 
fleeting glance of her father as he followed quickly, 
with irate determination, after the other. 

Before the doors of the library had swung closed 
behind the two, the father’s words echoed upward to 
the anxious girl. 

“You’ve had your chance,” Trevelyan was saying. 
“I’ve warned you before, and now I’m through.” 


CHAPTER IV 


S a ship’s passengers, in the midst of a placid 



^ voyage, are panic-swept when the vessel strikes 
a hidden reef, so came Trevelyan’s words to crash 
disastrously across the tranquil tenor of Lorraine’s 
household. The finality of her father’s phrase: 
“I’ve warned you before; now I am through,” made 
her faint with apprehension as she clung to the 
balustrade and listened. Her heart pounded, and 
she felt a giddiness that swept over her with her 
realization of the sudden crisis which Arthur had 
precipitated into their home. 

In dimly rolling thunders of Trevelyan’s denun¬ 
ciations, interspersed with the staccato of Arthur’s 
remonstrances and self-defense, the angered voices 
of the two men echoed from the library. Hardly 
daring to intrude, yet still prompted by the instinc¬ 
tive spur to act as shepherdess for her diminutive 
flock, Lorraine was aware that she must act quickly 
to avert a ruinous clash between father and son. 

Her feet flying, she ran quickly down-stairs into 
the library. 

Arthur sat slouched upon the lounge. Before 
him his father paced back and forth, his words punc¬ 
tuated with the angry rhythm of his short steps and 
irate gestures. 


After the Ball 45 

Trevelyan wheeled at the sound of Lorraine’s en¬ 
trance. 

“You can save your breath,” he told her. “Your 
brother’s gone too far. I have stood all of his dis¬ 
soluteness that I can—and now I’m through.” 

“But, father, wait! What is it all about?” 

Sketchily, stressing the high points of the esca¬ 
pade which had ended in the collision, Trevelyan 
told of the climax to Arthur’s prodigality. When 
he had finished, Lorraine looked at her brother for 
confirmation or denial. Arthur was silent. 

“I’ve pulled him out of other scrapes,” Trevelyan 
added, as if justifying himself to Lorraine, “and 
didn’t mind so much. I wanted him to have a good 
time. But each affair has gone farther; sooner or 
later, if he has not already done so, he will be in¬ 
volved in some shameful thing which will wreck 
our lives.” 

Arthur shifted impatiently in his chair, resentful 
of being so discussed objectively. 

“But it would not be that,” Lorraine offered. 
“After all, it was only done in fun.” 

“Fun! Do you call stealing a milk wagon fun? 
Do you call it fun to create hardships for a man 
struggling to make a living? Arthur would know 
better if he had to earn his living.” 

Arthur stirred restlessly again. He knew what 
was coming next. “Now, don’t repeat all that,” he 
protested. “You know there’s no 'sense in my 
going to work.” 

Trevelyan stormed anew at this. 

“Sense? Of course there is sense! I had to go 


46 


After the Ball 


to work. If I had not, where would you be now? 
It is the only thing that would save you—that is, if 
you could hold a job.” 

The slur stung Arthur to response. 

“Of course I could hold a job,” he flared. “That 
is just the trouble! Anyone for whom I worked 
would know I was 'Old Man Trevelyan’s son,’ and 
would make it easy for me. What would be the 
use of my starting at the bottom, as you call it, and 
working my way up, when everyone would boost 
me along, with your money always in mind ? 

“It might be different if you were still in busi¬ 
ness; then I could learn the groundwork first, and 
gradually might be able to step into your shoes. 
Thlt would be fun—the fun that you had, taking 
chances and winning. But why work and sweat 
away, with the cards all stacked so that I am sure 
to win? 

“Besides, what’s the difference, anyway? Here 
we are, who love each other, wrangling like compet¬ 
ing hucksters. There was a chap once—the other 
night—who said we were all like gnats on a decrepit 
orange—that’s the way it seems.” 

But Trevelyan had no sympathy with such sub¬ 
versive theories. 

“That’s poppycock! Sounds like a quotation 
from some half-baked Russian radical.” 

“It’s true,” insisted Arthur, with the absolutism 
of youth. 

“But you are wrong, Arthur—you’re wrong,” 
Lorraine interposed. “No one expects you to sweat 
unpleasantly. That isn’t necessary. But with what 


After the Ball 47 

dad has already given us to build upon, you can go 
so much farther.” 

She moved beside him. 

“Think of the resources and power at your com¬ 
mand, once you showed him you could use them 
wisely! Think of the thrill of employing them to 
achieve big results—of the satisfaction you would 
gain in having people know you as Arthur Trevel¬ 
yan, instead of as ‘Old Man Trevelyan's son.' ” 

She wheeled impulsively toward her father. 

“Please, Dad, won't you help me make him see it 
that way? Give him one more chance.” 

Trevelyan shook his head. 

“I’ve said this was the last; and I’ll stick to it.” 

But Lorraine had not exhausted her ammunition 
of appeals. 

“When I was little,” she reminded, “Mother told 
me to help you fight to win success. You’ve said I 
did. Won’t you help me to help us all?” 

Trevelyan struggled between stubborness and af¬ 
fection for his boy. He glanced at Arthur, whose 
eyes met his, then turned away, then raised again 
to meet his father’s gaze. In them the old man 
saw something of a bewildered appeal which drew 
his memory back to the days before the oil. “I 
don’t know,” he murmured. 

Lorraine was quick to take advantage of his vacil¬ 
lation. 

“Arthur!” she ordered, “come here!” 

The boy arose. Came a momentary vision to 
Lorraine of her brother being haled shame-faced 


48 


After the Ball 


before his teacher. Then Arthur raised his head 
and held forth his hand. 

“Please, Dad—Til try.” 


Arthur raised his tortured head from the pillow, 
and the glare of noon stabbed at his eyes as he 
became conscious of the insistent clamor of a tele¬ 
phone on the stand at his bedside. He tossed upon 
his other ear, trying to shut out the world, but the 
summons of the bell was not to be denied. 

“Hello-ullo !” Harry Maghan’s voice crashed 
against the transmitter when Arthur lifted the in¬ 
strument from its hook. “What’s the good word ?” 

Arthur murmured an inarticulate reply. 

“Just wanted to see if you were still alive,” ex¬ 
plained Harry. “Did the old walrus devour you?” 

Still retaining some of the contrite spirit under 
which he had become reconciled with his father 
earlier in the day, Arthur took umbrage. 

“You mean my father ?” 

“Oh—ah—a thousand pardons, Arthur! I 
wouldn’t for the world—but, I say! What are you 
doing tonight?” 

“I’m turning in early, and tomorrow start to 
work.” 

“Fine—fine—splendid! Just the thing for you! 
Be one of our captains of industry yet! Let’s cele¬ 
brate in honor of the event!” 

Arthur tried desperately to cling to his fast fleet¬ 
ing resolutions. 

“Can’t do it—got to have a clear head in the 
morning.” 


After the Ball 


49 


“To be sure—good old clear-headed Arthur! 
Always there with the old intellect—but listen— 
this will be your last chance before you go for the 
straight and narrow.” 

“Well—” 

“Atta boy! We’ll get Gilda, Dumplings and the 
crowd, and let them all know you are going to be a 
man of affairs—business affairs, I mean. What do 
you say?” 

“Well—” 

“All right—meet you at 9:30.” 

As Arthur hung up the receiver he suffered a 
momentary twinge of conscience, but after all, he 
thought, there could be no harm in one more party. 
Besides, he remembered Gilda’s winning smile, her 
tenderness and charm as she had last sat beside him 
at the cafe table. He began running over in his 
mind his assets of liquid resources, then turned to 
the phone to call his bootlegger. 


A steady stream of headlights, each one piercing 
the blackness of the rear seat of that preceding it to 
reveal silhouettes of couples seated close, moved 
like the links of an endless chain on the boulevard 
to the beach, in testimony to the popularity of the 
roadhouses which, lining the avenue, had been 
established beyond the city limits to circumvent the 
municipal ordinance that prohibited dancing after 
midnight. 

The most frequented of these roadhouses was 
“The Old Homestead,” whose rough-hewn, low- 
eaved timbers expanded generously in the midst of 


50 After the Ball 

the orange-grove that separated it discreetly from 
the highway. 

As if mocking the seclusion that “The Home¬ 
stead” pretended to offer, cleverly concealed spot¬ 
lights on the grounds of the roadhouse threw its 
outlines into a silvery relief against the velvet dark. 
Through one of these beams of radiance approached 
two taxicabs, their occupants alighting onto the 
broad porch puncheons that contributed to the pio¬ 
neer atmosphere, ingeniously contrived by metro¬ 
politan decorators. 

The towering figure of a man with the stature 
and face worthy of the brush of a Remington, had 
opened the doors of the two cars. Now, in ironical 
contrast to the simplicity and rugged independence 
of the symbolic homesteader in whose rough mode 
of attire he was garbed, the doorman ushered them 
servilely into the place. The creature was an in¬ 
spiration on the part of the management. He was 
the last touch to the ensemble that limned the free 
and open spaces of the West. 

“I’m sorry I had to crowd you into the taxis,” 
apologized Arthur as the group paused to remove 
their wraps. “I didn’t dare take my car out of the 
garage. I’m supposed to have retired early, to be 
ready for the career tomorrow.” 

The floor captain, in a refinement of the door¬ 
man’s costume, nodded in recognition as Arthur led 
his guests into the dance room, and conducted the 
group to “ringside” seats. The room was in semi¬ 
gloom. Subdued arc-lights, in a semblance of old- 
fashioned hanging oil lamps, shed a soft radiance 
downward. The rays, mellowed by a haze of 


After the Ball 


51 


smoke, touched with a flattering amber the crowded 
faces on the floor and at the tables. Rough-finished 
timberings of the furniture added to the sense of 
sombre intimacy, and enhanced the gloss and perfect 
polish of the dance floor which the tables surrounded. 

The room was thronged when Arthur and his 
companions reached their seats. The dance floor 
was so crowded that the gyrating, elbow-jostling 
couples could only rotate slowly in the orbit of their 
path. From behind the low-hung rafters more 
concealed spots and flood lights, their effects bor¬ 
rowed from the contrivances of the motion picture 
craftsmen at studios nearby, picked out intermit¬ 
tently, as the dance throng moved across the nimbus 
of light, faces of young men and women who had 
become known to all the world by the medium of 
the screen. Some of these were too elaborate, with 
too much of the dernier cri in their attire; others 
affected a carelessness of dress as if to say: “I am 
beyond the necessity of appearance for appearance’s 
sake.” 

Mingled among these, and pitiably aping their 
modes and mannerisms were the representative 
scores of the countless numbers who formed a 
fringe of the intricate tapestry in which “The Home¬ 
stead” was an important design. Extra girls— 
motion picture buckaroos who had shed their 
“chaps” to wear point-perfect evening clothes— 
shop girls and business office employees—girls who 
had worked for months to acquire the one evening 
gown which now they were submitting to the risk of 
ruin by a perspiring hand or an upset glass— 
dancing men—men who made quick, though im- 


52 


After the Ball 


permanent profits out of the lush expansion of the 
city—elderly men, who were being tolerated as 
casual and transient, escorts by feminine com¬ 
panions willing to accept anything in trousers that 
offered escape from the monotony of workaday life 
—the ripple of silk—the latest “hit” from Tin Pan 
Alley—the glance over a powdered, gleaming 
shoulder into eyes that beckoned—the subtle 
suggestion whispered in the ear—over all, the inde¬ 
finable, pervasive odeur du femme and of priceless 
perfumes, bartered in fragments of the ounce—all 
these were “The Homestead,” that decked itself in 
the guise of the pioneer. 

Once, in his cups, a whimsical wight swore that 
one night, as the last of the sybarites was departing, 
and as the bus-boys were placing chairs upon tables, 
he had seen the wraith of a settler, attracted from 
outside by the ruddy comfort and familiar design of 
the building, wander in for hospitable shelter, during 
a spiritual return to the trail he had followed in the 
path of Lewis and Clark. 

Beside the baton of the orchestra leader the ap¬ 
parition laid his ox-goad. He puzzled at the 
usurpation of the mouth organ and fiddle by the 
saxophone and clarinet. Cheered by his recogni¬ 
tion of the familiar fixtures, the settler tried to reach 
a hanging lamp to ignite his pipe, only to receive a 
stinging shock when he short-circuited the baby arc. 

A remnant of one of mammy’s hoe cakes, as per 
that part of the menu printed in English, had been 
overlooked at a serving table, and this the pioneer 
began to eat; but the savor of the skillet and camp- 


After the Ball 53 

fire were drowned under an unintelligible French 
sauce. 

There was something sad about this ghost, had 
observed the bibulous one; “The Homestead” had 
been staked out in other lands than the broad acres 
the pioneer had won from the wilderness. In the 
period when Kansas was “a dark and bloody 
ground,” there was no cover charge for the board 
spread for the wayfarer. 

Yet, in the fantastic vision of the inebriate 
drowsing at his table, there had been a humor, born 
of the rancher’s ethereal view-point, apparent in his 
philosophical smile as he dematerialized himself in 
time to avoid being drawn in the maw of a vacuum 
sweeper being operated by a Greek. 

Arthur scanned the menu. Exotic viands were 
listed beside primitive dishes that were in course of 
preparation by an imported chef. His suggestions 
fell flat. None of his crowd was hungry. “To¬ 
night, we drink,” insisted Dumplings. Arthur or¬ 
dered the inevitable cracked ice and ginger ale. 
“Bring plenty of glasses,” he added. Then, as the 
opening bars of a melody adapted to the “Chicago” 
were struck, Gilda touched his arm. 

“We must have the first one together,” she in¬ 
vited. The others followed their example. Soon 
they were merged, swallowed up, amid the pressing 
numbers of bodies upon the floor. 

When the last bribe had been tossed to the 
orchestra leader for another encore, and the merry¬ 
makers had reluctantly returned to their seats, they 
found the ingredients for their drinks awaiting 
them. 


54 


After the Ball 


While Arthur produced his bottle from its hiding 
place beneath the table, the others turned their at¬ 
tention to the favors that had been distributed dur¬ 
ing their dance. Absurd trifles—ludicrous fools’ 
caps and tri-corners with silly cockades perched on 
brim—were donned by the girls and men. Before 
each plate, tethered by the weight of silverware, 
floated miniature spherical and cigar-shaped bal¬ 
loons, buoyed up by the gas that inflated them. 

Gilda touched her glass to her lips in answer to 
Arthur’s nod, and their glances joined over the 
brims. Arthur swallowed deep, then, in an aside 
to Gilda, observed: “This stuff’s all right, but I 
like to have it talk back to me.” 

Holding the half-empty glass between his knees, 
he produced his concave hip flask and swathed it in 
a napkin, the better to fortify his drink without 
observation by the others. 

“Please, not too much—be careful,” Gilda begged. 

Arthur restored the hip flask willingly enough to 
his pocket. 

“Do you care?” 

The tone of his voice attached a significance to 
his inquiry that Gilda was not ready to recognize. 

“Of course I care,” she responded. She paused 
for a moment to phrase her response lightly in words 
which would not hint of the passionate turmoil that 
swayed her. She was still unwilling to admit, even 
to herself, that there was anything in Arthur’s in¬ 
terest, in his view-point of her, other than a random 
play at lovemaking. 

“Naturally I care,” she repeated. “You are my 


After the Ball 55 

friend, and I know you have things at stake. This 
work of yours tomorrow—” 

“But do you care?” 

Arthur’s emphasis of the last word imparted to it 
a deeper meaning than she had been willing to 
recognize in her first reply. It was significant of 
his Anglo-Saxon heritage, that even in spite of the 
reckless use of careless phrases to which Arthur and 
his friends were accustomed, he shrank, as would 
have done the others in similar emotional crises, 
from a direct use of a term denoting the idea of 
amour. 

Gilda again equivocated. She was not being pur¬ 
posefully elusive or coy, but the path into which she 
was being drawn was one in which she saw quick¬ 
sands for the unwary; and a hard background of 
experience had schooled her into cognizance of a 
drab coat of sizing often to be found beneath the 
patine of rosy paintings. 

“I don’t know—” Then she became straight¬ 
forward. “I like you—I am very fond of you—but 
I would try not to love very much anyone for whom 
life seems to hold no more than parties, drinking, 
good times—I have heard too often of what 
follows.” 

“But it would hold more—with you,” Arthur in¬ 
sisted. 

This was a new role he was playing; and though 
that part of him that found utterance was sincere, 
serious, even ardent, he was conscious at the same 
time of standing apart from himself and enjoying 


56 


After the Ball 


with amused sympathy the spectacle of the comedy 
which he was enacting. 

“If you were with me, there would be a purpose 
in working and amounting to something,” he con¬ 
tinued. “Oh, I know I have been a waster, and that 
what Dad says about me is true; but I have always 
had a feeling that so long as I kept within some kind 
of bounds, it did not matter much. With you be¬ 
side me, though, I could do big things, things that 
would make you proud of me. Think of the power 
of Dad’s money!” 

Mention of the money suggested a new thought. 

“It isn't the money?” he asked. “Surely, surely 
you would not let that stand in the way? Why, 
everybody knows we once had nothing, and were 
dirt poor.” 

Gilda looked at him frankly. “No, it isn’t the 
money—not entirely—” she answered. “At least, 
if I were sure I wanted you to marry me, so long as 
you knew it was not for the money, I would not care 
what outsiders thought.” 

“And aren’t you sure? Please—” 

Arthur stood poised on the brink, then took the 
plunge. “I love you! Tell me you love me—a 
little!” 

She swayed. Then she looked eagerly upward 
into his face and saw the effulgence of lovelight in 
his eyes. The intensity of his gaze suffocated her 
momentarily, and the inhibitions which she had 
erected for herself were swept away in a flood of 
emotion. Her eyes closed for a moment, while she 
strove desperately to marshal her courage; then, 
forcing herself to look at him, she nodded. 


After the Ball 


57 


As if her admission sponged away the cobwebs of 
doubts and sophistries which had obscured his way 
of thinking, a torrent of clairvoyant tenderness burst 
upon him that was to be scored, afterward, ineffably 
in his memory. Almost too incisive to be tolerated 
was the realization that this girl had drawn aside 
the glass screen of her defenses, and was submitted 
to him exposed and weaponless. 

At the same moment he became aware insidiously 
that this spectator, this alter ego of his, was sug¬ 
gesting that hers was the culmination of an adroit 
campaign; but in the exaltation of his renaissance, 
he put the thought aside as of an unworthy mood. 

He leaned forward, trying to brush her cheek 
with his lips. Gilda suddenly became conscious of 
the presence of the others, and embarrassed, drew 
away from him. 

One of the balloons, swayed by the miniature hur¬ 
ricane created in the wake of a passing waiter, 
swung toward Arthur’s face. An inspiration came. 
Quickly he passed his hands around the table, and 
gathered the other seven or eight toys which were 
floating above their heads. 

One by one, his hands working rapidly, he 
gathered the bobbing, distended bags on the table 
before Gilda and himself. Spoons, forks, salt cel¬ 
lars formed mooring stakes from which the balloons, 
at the level of their heads, tugged at their cotton 
cables. Their effect was to create a semi-opaque 
screen which shut out the rest of the party at the 
table and left Gilda and Arthur in apparent privacy. 

“Now!” exclaimed Arthur with satisfaction at his 
cleverness. Gilda, love hungry, and at the same 


58 


After the Ball 


time eager to humor the small boy spirit which had 
prompted the trick, consented. Their heads drew 
together. 

Harry Maghan was engrossed in hearing a long 
reminiscence, in which Dumplings was becoming 
involved in a maze of: “He said that I said that she 
said that I said that he said—” 

Through the tangled mass of words came one 
distinct impression, that before him was being en¬ 
acted an amazing tableau. 

“Oh, lookit!” he called. “Look at Romeo and 
Juliet!” 

Silhouetted in sharp relief against the glare of the 
light behind them, the heads of Gilda and Arthur 
were plainly visible through the transparent bubbles 
of the balloons. To the delighted interest of the 
onlookers, their lips came closer, were poised for 
a moment with an infinitesimal fraction of an inch 
separating them—then met. 

Harry Maghan took his cigarette from an ash 
tray, and hastily seized another from Dumpling’s 
hand. He reached outward. 

For a moment the glowing cylinders were poised 
beneath the two balloons nearest the caressing 
couple and then moved upward. There were two 
sharp reports. The filmy bags disintegrated, van¬ 
ished—and the diminutive explosions came crashing 
to bring Gilda and Arthur back to a material world. 
They drew hastily apart to find themselves staring, 
bewildered, into a sea of grinning faces. 

Gilda was first to regain her composure. “Who 
threw the bomb ?” she asked in an endeavor to cover 
her confusion. 


After the Ball 


59 


“I did!” declared Maghan. “I have an idea!” 

“Impossible!” objected Dumplings. 

“Oh, but I have! Just the thing for the end of a 
perfect day! It’s a wonder it didn’t occur to me 
before. We’ll all be in on it, and a pleasant time 
will be had by all.” 

“Come on, spill it and don’t talk so much.” 

“But this is important—just the thing for Arthur, 
too, now that he is going to be a business man—” 

“Hurry up! Spill'it!” 

“An elopement!” 

The daring of the idea was breath-taking. 

“But she hasn’t any trousseau,” objected Dump¬ 
lings, the practical one. 

“That’s all right,” Blondy offered. “We’ll gather 
some orange blossoms on the way.” 

Arthur, suffused with a glowing warmth, found 
the idea all to his liking. 

“Will you?” he whispered. “Are you game?” 

Gilda was storm-swept in a maelstrom of conflict¬ 
ing currents. 

“Oh, I couldn’t.” 

“Yes, you can! Say, yes, dearest, and tomorrow 
I will go to work and settle down.” 

Chiaroscuro pastels of vine-covered homes, with 
herself at the swinging gate waiting in the evening 
for Arthur’s return, rose before her in dim contrast 
to memories of one-night stand hotels, and of 
theatrical troupes drowsing on railroad platforms at 
four o’clock in the morning. Underneath was the 
insistent throb of the thought: “You love him— 
you love him—why not?” 


60 


After the Ball 


“Please, dearest, let’s be married right away!” 

His impetuous ardor brushed away any further 
hesitancy. As she had done a few moments before, 
so now she glanced at him clear-eyed and unafraid, 
and moved her head in acquiescence. 

Harry Maghan, who had been watching the little 
drama, arose and left the table. He approached the 
orchestra and whispered in the leader’s ear. 

“Gilda, let me be maid of honor?” begged 
Dumplings. 

“Who will give the bride away?” another asked. 

Gilda toyed with a play on words and then 
replied: 

“I’m giving myself away. But I’m getting, I 
know, far more than I can ever give.” 

Some phrase to express his own sense of un¬ 
worthiness was on Arthur’s lips, but Maghan’s re¬ 
turn to the table stopped its utterance. 

“Dear, dear Arthur!” volleyed Harry. “What 
a lucky chap you are! Congratulations! But you 
don’t deserve her!” 

“I know it,” agreed Arthur, “but just for saying 
so you will have to stand up as best man.” 

Maghan, beaming with importance, signaled to 
the orchestra. Guests at other tables looked up, first 
in amazement, and then in self-conscious enjoyment 
of the indelicacy of the air, as the strains of the 
hackneyed wedding march punctuated their conver¬ 
sation. 

Indifferent to the protestations and embarrassed 
remonstrances of Gilda and Arthur, Harry insisted 
that the couple arise, and he won his point. Then, 
marching with absurd gravity before them, with 


After the Ball 


61 


one hand holding an imaginary Book of Common 
Prayer and the other beating out the rhythm of the 
measure, Harry led the bridal procession. Gilda 
yielded to the boyishness with which Arthur swung 
themselves at the head of the line. Behind her 
Dumplings abandoned the role of maid of honor 
to become train bearer, while the others, burlesquing 
their respective parts, brought up the rear. 

The drinkers and diners, aware that either here 
were newlyweds or those about to enter that state, 
took Maghan’s cue. Streamers of serpentine shot 
through the air to be festooned upon the bridal 
party in lieu of rice, handfuls of confetti floated 
colorfully through the smoke-laden inclines of light. 

So, etched dizzily in the beam of the electric arc 
as they passed across the dance floor, and shrinking 
from the curious gaze of those at the tables between 
which they wound, Gilda, as in a daze, found herself 
being led out of “The Homestead,” and onto the 
veranda. 

Here the bracing stimulus of the night air restored 
her to an acute perception of what she was doing. 
She closed her eyes. Problems came back—ques¬ 
tion marks recurring to gleam red against her eye¬ 
lids. What was it all about? Who was this man 
beside her who was to become her husband ? What 
was she doing; what was she about? 

Then, with eyes reopened but still unseeing, she 
felt herself drawn into a taxi and Arthur’s arms 
around her, with his lips, feverish, touching hers. 


CHAPTER V 


T HROUGH the long hours which had followed 
their departure from “The Homestead” until 
they had reached the local Gretna Green in an ad¬ 
joining county, the taxicab had purred its way in a 
monotone of accompaniment to the confused impres¬ 
sions which Gilda gathered of this midnight 
matrimonial journey. 

To lean restfully against Arthur’s shoulder; to 
listen, not quite comprehending the words of reas¬ 
surance and high ambition that he murmured in her 
ear, yet lulled into composure by the cadences of his 
voice; to gaze as in a fairyland at the occasional 
strings of jeweled lights which spaced the long 
boulevard to mark the sleeping suburban towns; to 
note the fragrance of the blossoming orange trees 
and of the crimson ramblers that ran in hedgerows 
along the asphalt; to dwell again and again on the 
words, “I love him, I love him,” that were spoken 
noiselessly on her lips in counterpoint to the muffled 
reverberation of the motor; all these were a crazy- 
quilt pattern that had been woven about the in¬ 
terminable ride. 

Harry Maghan had insisted on occupying a seat 
opposite the driver; not only, he asserted, to make 
sure that the turtle doves remained free from inter¬ 
ruption, but in case some motor cop might bring 
them before a magistrate for a ten-day speed sen¬ 
tence instead of a life term. 


After the Ball 


63 


The others, Dumplings bewailing Harry’s deser¬ 
tion of her at a time like this and tearfully accepting 
Blondy’s assuaging sympathy, had crowded into a 
second taxi which followed a few hundred yards 
behind. 

There was an exultant backfire of the motor as 
the taxi reached its destination. Harry Maghan, 
clitiging to the door frame, leaned from his forward 
seat to thrust his head into the window of Gilda’s 
and Arthur’s compartment. 

“All out for Lover’s Lodge!” he called. 

As the party, with the men uttering sibilant 
hushes of warning, and the girls giggling nervously, 
followed the bride and groom and master of cere¬ 
monies to the door of the house that sheltered the 
combined license clerk and justice of the peace, 
Gilda’s fears returned to assail her. She felt very 
small and unimportant. She was like a child who 
finds himself swept adrift in the crowd of a railway 
station, whose trains depart for fearsome and un¬ 
known destinations. 

A moment later a ludicrous figure standing in the 
open doorway appeared, and a sense of humor came 
to her rescue. She was conscious of a face staring 
at her, whose chief characteristic was a pair of 
square gold-rimmed spectacles astride a beaklike 
nose, above which was a broad expanse of gleam¬ 
ing, hairless dome, and whose lower extremity 
curved downward, seemingly to meet the caress of 
an out jutting tuft of whiskers. Below this was 
a hazy expanse of nightshirt flapping chillily about 
lean shins and carpet-slippered feet. 


64 


After the Ball 


Fearing now that she might give way to hysterical 
laughter, she bit her lips to submerge her mirth, 
while Harry explained their mission. The night- 
robed apparition hid itself behind the door, mur¬ 
mured something about waiting a minute until he 
had time to change into his other clothes, and 
directed their way into the lighted living room. 

Of what happened in the succeeding interim Gilda 
was never fully aware, until suddenly she felt the 
pain of a too-tight signet ring being forced upon 
her finger, and heard the justice say, “Until death 
do you part.” 

She had knowledge of an inward smile when, as 
if she were a spectator instead of a principal, she 
considered the triteness of the official’s jocular 
addenda: “And may God have mercy on your 
souls.” Still in a blanketing fog, her senses told her 
that the ceremony was over, that Arthur had taken 
her hands, was putting his arms around her, was 
pressing his lips to hers— 

Then the earth reeled and rocked and time, per¬ 
sons and things were obliterated, save the oneness 
of themselves. 

She awoke to the babble of voices all speaking at 
the same time, the girls telling her and each other 
how glad they were, and the men each insisting on 
being first to kiss the bride. Arthur was discover¬ 
ing that his knees had stopped trembling, and that 
his voice was still articulate. Now, flushed with 
achievement, he was violently shaking the justice’s 
hand, and was bearing up bravely under the rain of 
congratulatory slaps upon the back. 


After the Ball 


65 


Gilda was being diverted by the curious phenom¬ 
enon of Dumplings—of her of the ready laughter 
and frothy “comeback”—now immersed in tears. 

“What’s the idea?” demanded Harry Maghan, 
lapsing into the vernacular in his astonishment. 

Dumplings gulped. “I’m crying—because I’m 
happy—” she responded. “I just thought how— 
how natural she looks.” 

Then the ride homeward. The strategies, when 
they returned to the city, to escape from the others. 
The hushed hours of the false dawn, when they 
crept on tiptoe into Arthur’s home, stole through 
the lower hallway, and up the stairs. The crepitat¬ 
ing hammer of her heart at the creaking of a loose 
board beneath their feet. The solitude as Arthur 
turned the key of the door behind him. 


Mark Trevelyan glanced from his evening paper 
as Lorraine entered the doorway of the living room. 
She made a lovely figure, he thought, standing there 
in her informal dinner dress, a filmy thing of blues 
and black with glints of silver interwoven in the 
fabric. He noted with familiar pleasure how aston¬ 
ishingly she was like her mother, and smiled af¬ 
fectionately as she advanced toward him with out¬ 
stretched hands. 

“Dinner is served, Dad,” she told him. “You 
must be famished.” 

With arms about each other the two moved into 
the dining room. Lorraine protestingly accepted 
the attention as Trevelyan motioned aside the butler 
and placed her in her chair. As he seated himself 


66 


After the Ball 


beside her, they exchanged a smile of fellowship 
across the table, whose appointments gleamed softly 
in the penumbra of the shaded lights above. 

But there was a foreboding of alarm in Lorraine’s 
heart as she glimpsed the displeasure with which her 
father observed the vacant chair beside them. 

“Where’s that boy? Why isn’t he here?” 

“I don’t know, dear,” Lorraine answered. “He 
may not have finished dressing.” She did not add 
that earlier in the afternoon the maid had told her 
that Mr. Arthur was still sleeping, with the door to 
his room locked against interruption. 

Trevelyan turned impatiently to the butler. 

“Have someone tell my son to hurry down,” he 
instructed. Then to Lorraine: 

“He’s probably sleeping off the effects of another 
all night party. That’s why he did not show up at 
the office today. I knew I was a fool to think he 
would keep his promise.” 

“But maybe there is some good reason,” urged 
Lorraine. 

“Reason? Nonsense! The boy is just a good- 
for-nothing! He is undependable, he is irrespon¬ 
sible, he is entirely worthless!” 

At this moment the subject of Trevelyan’s 
analysis opened the door of his room gingerly in 
response to the servant’s summons. 

“Tell father I will be there immediately,” he 
said. He waited until the maid had disappeared 
and then beckoned to Gilda, who was standing 
wretchedly reluctant to meet the coming ordeal. 


After the Ball 


67 


“We might just as well face the music now,” he 
said. “We’ll feel much better when it is over, and 
I know Dad will love you himself.” 

“But yesterday morning he would not even hear 
my name,” she reminded him. 

“Ah, but now your name is Trevelyan,” Arthur 
replied. He kissed her again in answer to her re¬ 
turning smile of happiness. 

Downstairs Trevelyan was finishing his tirade. 

“It is my own fault,” he observed to Lorraine. 
“Ever since the boy grew up I have let you wheedle 
me into overlooking his shortcomings. Had I been 
firmer all the time, he would be a man now, instead 
of a nincompoop.” 

The butler entered. Lorraine’s warning glance 
checked Trevelyan with a further word unsaid. 

In the foyer Arthur and Gilda loitered at the foot 
of the staircase. She put a restraining hand on his 
arm as he started to lead her to the dining room, 
and paused with explorative hand to make sure 
that no lock of hair was in disarray. 

“Are you sure that I look all right?” 

“You’re wonderful!” 

Arthur placed an arm around her and gently 
pushed her forward. There were a few feet of steps 
between them and the doorway, steps to be traversed 
with lagging feet and faltering courage. 

Trevelyan fished for the last iced clam. He im¬ 
paled the delicacy and was conveying it with ex¬ 
pectant relish toward his mouth, when a sound at 
the doorway, not of the footsteps of one person but 
those of two, distracted him. 


68 


After the Ball 


The last clam hung suspended, never to be de¬ 
voured. Trevelyan’s eyes bulged and his mouth, 
which had opened for the morsel, became a wider 
orifice with astonishment. The clam fork jingled 
on the plate. 

Before him, at the farther end of the room, his 
amazed senses beheld his son standing bravely a little 
in the van, while with the young man, and clinging 
desperately to his hand, was that blonde young 
thing, the nobody who had been with Arthur at the 
time of the disgraceful milk-wagon affair. On their 
faces were entreating smiles, but he did not notice 
these. 

The graceful phrase of introduction which 
Arthur had so carefully rehearsed now failed him. 
He tried to be the first to speak, but the moment of 
hesitancy lost him that tactical advantage. 

“It’s good of you to honor us with your presence 
at all,” Trevelyan offered ironically. “It would be 
more considerate, though, if you were to let us know 
beforehand that you were entertaining guests. In 
view of your delightful informality, we can waive 
the introductions.” 

Trevelyan arose from his chair and was about to 
leave the room. Arthur’s heart sank at the chill in 
his father’s tone. The situation was fast becoming 
irreparable. He stepped forward impulsively be¬ 
fore it should be too late. 

“Wait, father!” he demanded. “Wait! This 
is my wife.” 

Trevelyan halted, stunned. 

“Your wife? Impossible!” he exclaimed. 
























nl? • g| • 












































. 





















• 




• • 4 
< 































. 

* t 



















^ - : 













X > 








' 

K 





















I I 














1 : #'| 

































































v 
















• v •- 


















. • 

■ 


































































V®. 


















. A 






























w 


K' :?% 


m- 

• Vj^v, 


4 





















V, J, >. 


■ V 4 










After the Ball 


69 


“It is not impossible. It is true,” Arthur replied 
firmly, with anger rising at his father’s curt re¬ 
ception of the news. 

Trevelyan brushed past his son and confronted 
Gilda. 

“Is this true?” he demanded. 

Gilda looked at him staunchly. 

“Yes.” 

“You—you are married to my son?” 

“Yes!” 

Trevelyan was stricken. Ideas were coming too 
rapidly. 

“But what’s your name?” he questioned. “Who 
are you?” 

Gilda groped for a reply, but Arthur checked her. 

“Wait, dear—I’ll answer.” 

Then, turning to his father: 

“I’ve told you—she is my wife. Before we mar¬ 
ried, her name was Gilda Gay. Now it is Gilda 
Trevelyan—Mrs. Arthur Trevelyan. Until she be¬ 
came my wife, Gilda was an actress. Now—” 

“An actress! O good Lord!” Trevelyan groaned. 
“I suppose you were in the movies.” 

Gilda was not to remain silent. 

“Yes, in the movies, as you say. I worked for 
my living—often from early in the morning until 
long hours at night.” 

Trevelyan grunted. He glowered at his son. 

“And I suppose,” he observed, “that you’d like 
to be an actor, too.” 

“He might do worse,” retorted Gilda. Their 
tempers rapidly were becoming taut and fragile. 


70 


After the Ball 


“Yes, he might,” responded the father. “He 
probably has, and probably will.” 

“Father !” Lorraine had moved from the table and 
was maneuvering to quell the tempest she saw 
arising. 

“Keep out of this!” Trevelyan warned her. He 
resumed his questioning. 

“Let’s get to the bottom of this. How long have 
you two been married?” 

Arthur felt a premonition of what was coming 
next, but met the issue. 

“Since last night—we all drove to Riverside.” 

Trevelyan, whose first impetuous rage had given 
way to a cold, grim anger, spoke with cutting irony. 

“That explains why you didn’t keep your word 
to come to work today. Your other affairs were 
no doubt too pressing.” 

Arthur shrugged. Goaded by the sting of his 
father’s words, he was growing reckless of con¬ 
sequences. He replied flippantly. 

“That’s about it. You see, I’d had no experi¬ 
ence at being married, and I overlooked the other 
minor details.” 

Lorraine, trying vainly to stem the flow of bicker¬ 
ing, moved to Gilda’s side. She was moved to sym¬ 
pathy for this pretty, appealing creature being sub¬ 
jected so harshly to the jarring ordeal at the incep¬ 
tion of her new-found romance. Her hand slipped 
around Gilda’s, to press it reassuringly. 

Arthur’s response made Trevelyan lose what still 
remained of patience. Still with deadly calm, he 
unleashed the venom of his invective. Thoughts, 


After the Ball 71 

phrases, formed to find an utterance that afterward 
was to bring a torturing regret. 

The group stood poised, as an avalanche lingers 
immobile for a fraction of a second before its crash. 
Then— 

Manlike, Trevelyan tried to blame this disrup¬ 
tion of his home upon the woman. 

“Let me congratulate you,” he said to Gilda, 
“upon the success of your ambitions.” 

“Dad, you mustn’t!” It was Lorraine speaking. 

“Shall we negotiate, or have you a lawyer 
ready?” 

“What can you mean?” Gilda could not believe 
that this situation which she had seen played before 
the camera was bearing down upon her. 

“I mean a settlement, of course. What are your 
terms ?” 

“Oh, that is unjust! You are cruel! Surely you 
don’t think—” 

Trevelyan smiled. 

“You are a credit to your profession. Your dis¬ 
play of ability is admirable.” 

Lorraine seized at Arthur’s upraised arm. 

“Stop, father! You have no right!” he pro¬ 
tested. 

“No right!” Trevelyan interrupted. “You dare 
stand there and talk to me of right, when you bring 
this—this—” 

“Be careful—even if you are my father—!” 

“I beg your pardon!” Trevelyan lapsed into his 
incisive iciness. “I was about to say that when you 
brought this—ah—no doubt estimable young woman 


72 


After the Ball 


into my house, you should have considered whether 
you had any right to a wife without means of sup¬ 
porting her.” 

“But of course I can support her.” 

“How?” Trevelyan raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Why—why—well, I’ll go to work. I’ll come to 
your office tomorrow.” 

Arthur had stepped into the trap which his 
father vindictively had set for him. 

“Ah—I see! You’ll come to my office tomorrow! 
You’ll come to my office now, after having been 
indifferent and impudent to my efforts to make a 
man of you! You’ll go to work, after having 
laughed at work as something for your father and 
other plodding dolts to do! You’ll support a wife, 
after having never supported yourself! 

“No! As a climax to your illustrious career as 
a rich man’s profligate son, you join in an all-night 
carousal with your drinking companions, in the 
course of which you acquire a wife! You marry! 
Very good. You have a wife; support her, as you 
say. But don’t come to me for aid. I warned you 
yesterday that I was giving you one more chance. 
I meant it! Now I’m through.” 

“Dad! Please—oh, please!” Lorraine interposed 
her body between the father and son, and with arms 
around her father’s neck, tried to intercede. “Don’t 
do something you’ll regret. Give Arthur another 
chance.” 

Trevelyan ruthlessly removed her arms and held 
her from him. All his pent-up rage at seeing his 
dreams for his son dissolve like dew, all the impotent 
resentment at facing a situation he could not domi- 


After the Ball 73 

nate, shredded his nerves and his self-control. He 
neared the breaking-point. 

“ 'Another chance!’ You talk of chance— 
chance! What chance had I, when I worked, and 
worried, only to give him a 'chance’ to make ducks 
and drakes of his life ? I’m giving him his chance! 
Now let him take it, and go!” 

"You wouldn’t drive him away—?” 

"I’ll go!” Arthur checked his sister’s plea. "Never 
mind, Lorraine—I’ll go.” 

The boy, who had been standing with his left arm 
around his wife, half-swung her impetuously around. 
She stopped him. 

"Wait, dear—let me go, instead.” 

On the surface of her thoughts was the insensate 
craving to be away—to be free from this place of 
harrowing emotions— 

"No—if we go we’ll go together !” 

Arthur held his wife closer to him. He looked 
again at his father, who stood before him, stony 
and implacable. 

"Dad, do you mean it?” 

"Get out!” The older man was conscious of a 
paralyzing constriction of iron around his chest as 
he forced himself to hold to his word. 

Arthur turned to go, but as he swung resolutely 
toward the door, there lingered a fleeting glimpse of 
his father’s face, on which anger, determination, 
stubborn will and a heavy heartache were mingled. 
All the tenderness inherent in the boy moved him 
spontaneously, and he held out his hand. 

"Dad,” he pleaded chokingly, "anyway, can’t we 
be friends?” 


74 


After the Ball 


Trevelyan’s lips moved. A convulsive tremor of 
passion and love swept over his face, but the will 
was not to be broken. 

“Get out!” 

“Very well.” 

Arthur yielded to the ultimatum, not daring to 
see his father again lest his own control be uprooted 
in a tornado of unhappiness. He walked with Gilda 
to the hallway door. 

But the action of turning the knob, of opening 
the door and stepping aside to allow Gilda to pass 
through, again brought into his vision the others of 
his family whom he was about to leave. Motion¬ 
less, as if congealed by the intensity of his wrath, 
Trevelyan still stood watching his son depart. Be¬ 
side him was Lorraine, mute, anguished, aghast at 
the wreckage of the mansion over which she had 
been chatelaine since childhood.. 

The eyes of the sister and brother met. Invol¬ 
untarily, in response to the unspoken appeal each 
saw in the other’s face, their arms were extended. 
There was a staccato sound of running feet across 
the polished floor, and Lorraine threw herself into 
Arthur’s embrace. 

“My dear! My dear!” she murmured. “How 
can we be apart?” 

“I’ve got to, dearest,” the boy replied. “There is 
nothing else to do.” 

To Trevelyan, watching coldly, the tragic fare¬ 
well seemed an affront. 

“Lorraine!” he ordered. “Come here!” 

Lorraine lingered for a last little interval. 


After the Ball 75 

“You’ll let me hear from you always?” she 
begged. 

“Always!” Arthur pledged. 

They held each other closely, for a time that 
seemed all too short. Then the boy forced himself 
away. 

Trevelyan, with unseeing eyes filled with tears, 
heard his son’s footsteps pass beyond the doorway. 
The door closed. The latch clicked. And Trevel¬ 
yan, broken in grief, dropped his head upon his 
chest. 


CHAPTER VI 


G ILDA disconsolately looked up from the maga¬ 
zine she had been perusing to while away the 
time. She glanced at the walls of the combined 
living and bedroom, and noted with a little grimace 
of distaste how monotonously similar, with their 
overstuffed plush furniture and imitation mahogany, 
were the quarters of the endless number of hotels 
that make up New York’s “Roaring Forties.” 

Her gaze fell upon the little traveling clock on 
the bureau. It was late—the hands marked an hour 
lacking only a few minutes of three o’clock. The 
jarring rumble of wheels of a passing “L” train 
crashed through the stillness of the night to recall 
her to worry why Arthur had not yet returned. 

She gathered her negligee around her, rose, and 
crossed the room to straighten the odds and ends 
that littered the dressing table. Withered flowers 
in an imitation cut-glass holder were shouting for 
attention, and she discarded them. Different, this 
was, she thought, from the first days of her honey¬ 
moon. Then they had stopped at the newest and 
largest of the multiplex establishments that house a 
fair-sized city’s population in the guise of a hotel. 
Then there were fresh flowers, not once, but several 
times daily, while phalanxes of maids, bell boys, 
clerks and other underlings anticipated any service 
she could imagine. This was for so long a period 


After the Ball 


77 


as Arthur was “young Trevelyan, the son of the 
California oil millionaire” and his credit held good. 

For to New York, drawn by its lure of opportu¬ 
nity—“where business is big—where the game is 
worth while—where a fellow has a chance to show 
what he can do”—Arthur had brought Gilda while 
still in the first golden glow of their high adventure. 
He was confident of the welcome awaiting him on 
the strength of his father’s name, and in this he was 
not disappointed until he had tried to transmute his 
reception into terms of money making instead of 
money spending. Then came a rude awakening. 
Simultaneously came the necessity of a hurried tele¬ 
graphic appeal to Lorraine for funds, and, when 
these were forthcoming, a rather depressing boule- 
versement in the shape of forced reduction of ex¬ 
penses and a change to other and cheaper quarters. 

Now, the radiance of her romance slightly tar¬ 
nished by the erratic manner in which Arthur was 
setting about to win fame and fortune, Gilda found 
herself back in another of the seemingly limitless 
procession of eminently respectable, but slightly 
shoddy, hotels which were the chief remembrance 
of her road-show days. It was discouraging; but 
she felt a mighty assurance that eventually Arthur 
would orientate himself and find a pathway through 
his labyrinth. 

The door knob turned. Gilda swung eagerly to¬ 
ward the direction of the sound. Then her face be¬ 
came suffused with relieved happiness as she saw 
Arthur standing in the room. 

He was in evening clothes. A trace of cigarette 
ash lingered upon the sleeve of his dinner coat, and 


78 


After the Ball 


his collar did not quite survive immaculately the 
ordeal of the evening. There was an indefinite 
aroma of stale tobacco smoke mingled with the 
fumes of Scotch that clung to his clothes, but none 
of these Gilda noticed as, with a little inarticulate 
cry, she ran and threw herself into his arms. 

Arthur’s responses were not entirely spontaneous 
as she drew him to the lounge and seating him there, 
snuggled beside him. It was with forced cheerful¬ 
ness that he told her how glad he was to be back 
with her again. 

“I was so worried—I was afraid you had been 
hurt,” she told him. “Couldn’t you have phoned?” 

“I thought you would be asleep and did not want 
to wake you,” he answered. 

There was a light suggestion of a frown as he 
spoke that Gilda did not notice, nor could she, un¬ 
schooled in masculine perversity, divine his resent¬ 
ment at the tiny silken cords of obligation which he 
was beginning to feel wind irresistibly about him. 

In an overflow of her renewed wonder at the 
miracle of their love, Gilda’s next words also were 
incautious. Poor child—from her view-point there 
was no necessity for caution nor reason why she 
should weigh her words with one so dear. 

“I missed you so much!” she lamented happily. 
“You’ve never been away from me so long.” 

Another strand of gossamer added to the web. 
Arthur’s impulse was to brush it aside casually. 
Lightly, in an effort to ignore its existence, he 
replied: 

“Well, I was longer at the club than I thought 
I’d be.” 


After the Ball 79 

“Oh! Oh, Arthur! Again? When you knew 
that I was here alone waiting ?” 

She could have bitten off her tongue to recall her 
words. Instantly came appreciation that this was 
not the Gilda with whom Arthur had frolicked, 
carefree, in California. She saw now that he was 
in ill humor, had been so since his entrance, for this 
time his impatience was not disguised in his reply: 

“Yes, again—why not? What of it? I’ve got 
to meet people if Fm to make business connections.” 

Instantly she was all contrition. 

“Of course, dear—forgive me! I would not in¬ 
terfere for all the world.” 

Something in her generous acquiescence pricked 
at his conscience. He was only too well aware that 
it was not a business connection he had sought at 
the club. His victory over her was too easy for his 
self-esteem, and to salve his pride, he adopted the 
feminine strategy of putting the injured party on 
the defensive. Still trying to talk himself out of a 
bad situation he continued: 

“I've got to get money somehow for the hotel 
bill. It was only a little game and it seemed easy.” 

He realized that his last phrase was a blunder, 
that he should have left well enough alone. With 
this knowledge came a wounded resentment at Gilda 
for having made it possible for him to weaken him¬ 
self in his own mind. He became sullen, and, be¬ 
cause he really was in love with her, sought balm 
for his own crippled dignity in an opportunity to 
relieve himself by hurting the thing he loved. 

Through the tender mistiness of her thoughts of 
him came a worry forcing itself into her mind with 


80 


After the Ball 


the insistence of a fire-alarm. She looked at him, 
startled at first, and then dismayed as she became 
aware of the word’s significance. She repeated his 
phrase: 

“Seemed easy?” 

The inference struck home. 

“Seemed easy?” she repeated. “Then you lost?” 

Arthur nodded sulkily. His hand moved list¬ 
lessly, as if to say: “What of it?” 

Consternation came with his admission. 

“What little we had?” 

Again he nodded. Another fibre added to the 
mesh. He was in for it—might as well brush ruth¬ 
lessly ahead. Maybe he could break down the web. 

“What if I did ? It’s my money, isn’t it, and my 
time?” 

The harsh brutality of his callous response stung 
her from the lethargy of her first shocked surprise. 
She sprang to her feet and stood, more wretched 
than angry, facing him. 

“Of course it’s yours—but it’s because I love you, 
and want you to do something, instead of wasting 
everything—your money, and your time, and what 
is most vital, the best that is in yourself!” 

She paused, hoping that his next words would be 
reassuring. He failed to speak, and she continued: 

“It’s not that I care about the money you lost! 
You know that if I had enough, gladly would I 
give it all to you to do with as you wish!” 

She checked herself and turned aside to stifle a 
tear, in order that he might not see her weep. Do¬ 
ing so, the plush and sham mahogany intruded to 



AFTER THE BALL 


A RENCO PRODUCTION 


"Seemed easy?” she repeated. “Then you lost?” 







After the Ball 81 

repeat their dispirited revery of one-night stands 
and the vagaries of that nomadic life. 

“It is not the money/’ she repeated, pleading to 
be understood. “But I want a home, and shelter, 
instead of this day-to-day scramble.” 

Again Arthur’s guilty knowledge insisted on re¬ 
lief. He found it in her plea and wilfully misin¬ 
terpreted her thought. 

“That is all you married me for—a meal ticket!” 
He threw the accusation at her viciously. “You 
thought you would get it through Dad—” 

“Ah—don’t! Don’t!” 

Like a friendly youngster who receives a rebuff 
when he expects a caress, Gilda stared round-eyed 
at him, in pitiable unbelief that this man of hers 
could so have struck at her. Then she seemed to 
shrink under the blow. She wilted. Only to hide 
her face from all the world and its misery. She 
sank to the lounge. Her head became buried in the 
pillows. Long, choked-up dry-eyed sobs struggled 
not to be repressed. She lay there, with Arthur 
sitting stolidly at her side, a wan little figure hud¬ 
dled in the corner, shaken and forlorn. 

Arthur tried to nurse along his sense of injury, 
which was insisting, to an irritating degree, upon 
departing. Was he not responsible for their fi¬ 
nances? Then what business was it of hers what 
he did with the money? Just like a girl, to make a 
fellow feel rotten when it was all her fault. 

The vibration of her stifled sobs sent a slight 
tremor through the lounge and intruded on his con¬ 
sciousness. Why does a girl always have to cry? 


82 


After the Ball 


She knows very well it is her strongest weapon. 
She doesn’t play fair. . . . 

The lounge shook again. 

Well, he couldn’t stand that. He rose. Aim¬ 
lessly he paced the narrow confines of the room. 
He reached the dresser. He pottered with the 
objects upon it. He picked up a discarded collar. 
His supply of linen was running low. Somehow 
he would have to dig up money for some new stuff. 

His fingers dallied with a little squat bottle. 
“Coeur de Jeunesse” read the label. He diverted 
himself by trying to remember his prep-school 
French. “Heart of a young girl”—silly phrase. 

He looked toward the lounge. The sobs had sub¬ 
sided and she was lying inert. She had had a good 
cry, and now she was satisfied. Probably expected 
him to go over and pet her into forgiving him. 
He’d show her. . . . 

A lip stick. A few hair pins. A box of face 
powder. He sniffed at it experimentally. There 
was a reminiscent something—a nostalgia of mem¬ 
ory. Something lingered vaguely in the fragrance 
—difficult to place. Gilda—face powder—a jumbled 
impression of perfume of orange blossoms and of 
a motor humming its way between avenues of crim¬ 
son ramblers—of a ride through the night. . . . 

The comfortable chugging of the taxi progressing 
toward its inevitable conclusion—a chariot of des¬ 
tiny.tender inarticulate murmurings— 

reassurances and pledges .... the indefin¬ 
able mingling of memories and of recurrent sensory 
impressions. Queer, the subtle connection between 
the sense of smell and these remembrances. Orange 



After the Ball 


83 


blossoms—he’d promised to be good to her. Well, 
wasn’t he? A fellow can’t do more than he can 

.funny, how a girl has to have so 

much junk around her. All these things on the 
dresser. Couldn’t she get along as well without 
them? Useless stuff. . . . serve her right if 

he were to sweep it all helter-skelter into a drawer. 
Teach her to be orderly. This thing, now—what 
in the world was it good for ? 

He picked up the article and stared at it with tol¬ 
erant amusement. It was an egg-shaped object of 
wood, from one end of which extended a handle. 
It was of a size to fit conveniently into a woman’s 
hand. The end of the spheroid opposite the handle 
was mottled with countless tiny scars where a needle, 
in persevering but unpracticed fingers, had pricked 
through the shiny varnish. 

He laid the thing back upon the dresser where 
he had found it. Beside it was a small black shape¬ 
less mass of woven silk. He picked it up. It was 
a sock. One of his own. 

He crushed the fabric in his hand with a recurrent 
anger at her untidiness in having the thing there, 
instead of where it could be found conveniently with 
its mate. As his fingers pressed around the sock a 
sharp sting of pain caused him quickly to unclench 
them. Then he saw a needle, with its strand of 
darning floss still through the eyelet, where it had 
been placed until the work of repair should have 
been completed. 

Then came recollection. It had been a long time 
since Arthur had seen his sister Lorraine, while she 
was still in smock and pigtail, mending his stock- 


84 


After the Ball 


ings with the aid of a darning needle. He slid the 
egg into his sock, and inspected closely the yawning 
gap which his toe had worn through the fabric. 

The half finished stitches engrossed his attention. 
They were painstaking, minute; but here and there 
the inexperience of their maker had skipped a strand. 
It was easy for him to imagine how Gilda had strug¬ 
gled with the task; how the yarn had become snarled 
and knotted in spite of her; how she had kept on, 
with eagerness, in knowledge of his scanty supply 
of clothing, to have a pair of freshly mended hose 
for him in the morning. 

But it wasn’t for someone to darn his socks that 
he had asked her to become his wife. He wanted a 
companion—a girl who could be a good fellow and 
keep up with the crowd, and not worry about to¬ 
morrow or the money. That was it: this money 
business. Probably she had been figuring she could 
save the expense of a new pair. 

Maybe, after all, she was right. Possibly it was 
better to economize as she had urged. It was on 
her insistence that they had moved to this cheaper 
hotel, instead of taking the chance of being able to 
meet the bill at the other place. He knew she had 
had more experience in making both ends meet 
than he. Perhaps he was a fool—perhaps there was 
nothing to this business—a fellow lost in the long 
run. 

He replaced the sock and its darning egg upon 
the dresser. Still no sound from the lounge. Per¬ 
haps she had fallen asleep, exhausted by the par¬ 
oxysms of her weeping. Perhaps she was lying 


After the Ball 


85 


there waiting—only waiting—with a misery of long¬ 
ing eating at her heart. Perhaps nothing mattered 
for her then but to be told that he loved her and 
that he did not mean what he had said. 

He turned his attention from the little homely 
touch of domesticity presented by the sock upon the 
dresser and looked again at Gilda. She seemed so 
sweet—so beautiful—so lovable. 

Then, as by a tidal wave, he was engulfed by a 
prompting of tenderness, of a masculine sense of 
protectiveness and of giving, that had made him 
first wish to avoid hurting her. Now he had hurt 
her. He remembered how Lorraine use to kiss his 
bruises. 

He moved on tiptoe across the room. Possibly 
she really was asleep, he thought, so he was careful 
not to startle her into wakefulness. He kneeled 
carefully beside the lounge. 

Her face, still concealed among the pillows, of¬ 
fered no means of access; but at the back of her 
neck, where a little golden tendril of hair had 
escaped from its companion locks in attractive dis¬ 
array, an interval of bare white flesh appeared above 
the laciness of her negligee. Over this he leaned 
cautiously. Then he touched his lips gently to the 
curl. 

Gilda steeled herself to remain quiet. It seemed 
too good to be true, that he did not hate her. She 
waited. The pressure of his lips came again, this 
time more firmly as he responded to the urge to hold 
her close to him and bring her back to happiness. 
She moved slightly. The lips were withdrawn. 


86 


After the Ball 


She turned her face to look upward into his. Re¬ 
pentance, love, concern for her, were readable in 
his eyes. 

“Did I wake you?” he asked softly. 

“I wasn’t asleep,” she replied. Still she dared 
not put her expectancies to the test. 

Then he sank lower beside the lounge. His arms 
passed hungrily around her waist, and he buried his 
face where slim throat and shoulder met. 

“Dearest, dearest!” he begged. “Can you for¬ 
give me?” 

Her hand patted his back in reassurance. 

“I’m sorry, honestly! Tell me you forgive me!” 

For answer she held him closer to her shoulder. 

“I forgive you, of course! Only—” 

“Only what, dear? I’m sorry, sorry truly.” 

“Only—only—what you said about—about your 
father—” 

She fought against her reluctance to repeat the 
hideous phrase. “About your father and the meal 
ticket.” 

“But I didn’t mean it, honey, I didn’t! I just 
said that, because I was sore! Forgive me!” 

“I know, dear, I know. It was all my fault.” 

“Shsh—it wasn’t!” 

“Yes, it was! I shouldn’t have started it at first.” 

“You didn’t start anything, Gilda, honey. It 
was my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed out and 
played cards. But it’s going to be different from 
now on—and tomorrow I’ll really try to land a job. 
Honestly I will!” 

“Oh Arthur! Will you really?” 


After the Ball 


87 


“Yes, dear, I promise! I—I love you so!” 

He clung to her in an intensity of emotion. Half 
crooning, half murmuring fragmentary phrases of 
sentiment and devotion, she rocked back and forth, 
back and forth upon the lounge, with his head pil¬ 
lowed against her breast. 


The Weaver at the Loom had heard, counter¬ 
pointing the diapason of sound which is New York’s 
lullaby, the little interlude in minors of Arthur’s 
love nocturne. Now as the symphonal metropolitan 
discordance swelled to a crescendo of its major 
movement, the Weaver turned again to the warp 
and woof of the intricate pattern he was fashioning 
out of human lives. Into the web of the design a 
new strand of drab material was to mingle, with un¬ 
expected contrast to the brighter colors of his 
tapestry. 

Not far from the makeshift home of Gilda and 
Arthur, near that part of the city where electric 
kittens, blazoned against the sky to play endlessly 
with their spools of silk, marked the focal point of 
Broadway’s glamor, were the two whose destinies 
soon would be merged inscrutably with those of the 
young couple enjoying so keenly the poignancy of 
their first quarrel and reconciliation. 

One of these turned his attention, at his com¬ 
panion’s words, from the frieze of beer rings he was 
marking upon the wooden table with his glass. A 
frown of dissent made still more ill-visaged the 


88 


After the Ball 


features which a Lombrosio, or a plain-clothesman 
from that headquarters of police ganglions known 
as “300 Mulberry Street,” would have marked as 
belonging to the higher strata of the underworld. 

Only the features themselves, however, betrayed 
the calling of their possessor or his companion; for 
except that possibly there was a shade too much of 
conservatism and caution in fabric, cut and color, 
their attire was indistinguishable from that of all the 
indiscriminate throng that flocked nightly to this 
roof restaurant atop one of the showiest of the 
downtown hotels. 

It was in their diction, though, that they would 
have been set aside had any of the cognoscenti of 
police headquarters been there to hear. They spoke 
in an argot of their own; their conversation was 
replete with words apparently without syntax, which 
had an oblique meaning apparent only to themselves 
and to their kind. Names and phrases of obvious 
innocence had a sinister interpretation to ears prop¬ 
erly attuned. 

Translated, there was at least coherence and un¬ 
derstanding in the words of him who set his stein 
aside and objected: 

“You’re all wrong, Murphy. It’s too big a 
chance. We’d never get away with it.” 

Murphy, impatient at the other’s misgiving, in¬ 
sisted to the contrary. 

“Chance nothing!” he scoffed. “It’s a soft lay, 
and there’s nothing to it. All we got to do, Soapy, 
is to wait until the coast is clear.” 


After the Ball 89 

“But what about the watchman?” Soapy re¬ 
minded. 

“That dead pan?” Murphy derided. “That 
frozen-face will be pounding his ear all night long. 
You know what them swell joints is like—the min¬ 
ute the boss gets in his limousine to go into town, 
the servants will either hit the hay or get busy 
keeping dates.” 

Soapy got the illusion -to the watchman and his 
bed, but was still unsatisfied. 

“You think it’s a soft crib,” he replied, “but 
cracking it isn’t so easy as all that. There ought 
to be more of us.” 

“What! Split three ways ? Haven’t I told you, 
the more we pay, the harder the way? Just us two 
to swing it, Soapy.” 

Soapy’s eyes glittered greedily. “What’s the per¬ 
centage?” he demanded. 

“Percentage? There’s only one percentage— 
fifty-fifty.” 

“It don’t listen good,” Soapy objected. “You 
talk like you gotta yen to go up the river.” 

“What? The Big House? Never! I’ve still 
to be a first timer,” Murphy boasted. 

“Yeah, that’s still coming to you, all right, but I 
don’t want to be in on it.” 

“I tell you there’s not a chance. Listen—” 

Murphy bent his head closer to Soapy’s. With 
all the enthusiasm of one who is confident in the 
success of his ambitions, he outlined the details of 
his plan to his skeptical accomplice, and gradually, 


90 


After the Ball 


as Murphy elaborated the enticing possibilities of 
the “lay” and mapped roughly the scene of opera¬ 
tions with beer-moistened finger upon the table, 
Soapy’s doubts reluctantly were put aside. There 
was a nod of tacit understanding. They were all 
set. 

And the Weaver, snipping the drab-colored 
worsted from his skein, laid the yarn aside until the 
involved design should demand its use again. 


CHAPTER VII 


TT was seven o’clock. From her bedroom win- 
A dow Gilda could catch a glimpse, over interven¬ 
ing roofs and between encroaching buildings, of the 
stately clock tower that was one of the city’s land¬ 
marks. She counted each red flash, at the peak of 
the imposing marble shaft, from the lantern mark¬ 
ing hours. Seven o’clock! Arthur was already 
overdue. In the streets below, the homeward sub¬ 
way rush had subsided. Belated dinner guests, and 
early ones hurrying to the theaters for their night’s 
business of entertaining others, were scurrying 
along, antlike, upon the sidewalks and in taxis. 

Early in the morning he had left her with the 
announced determination of hunting for a job, and 
of finding it, warm on his lips before his farewell 
kiss. His lateness in returning might mean two 
things: he had been unsuccessful—he had trudged 
wearily all day long without reward; or his quest 
had reached its goal and already he had placed his 
foot upon the ladder. 

There was a sound of footsteps in the hall beyond 
the door. Anxiously she yearned to learn the 
answer to her wonders. 

In the hallway, out of sight of the descending 
elevator, Arthur paused while in the act of reaching 
for the door knob. Here was a tricky business. It 
would do no good, he reasoned, to let Gilda know 


92 


After the Ball 


that it had been easier to wire Lorraine for funds, 
and to while away the intervening time before her 
answer came, than to visit employment agencies or 
seek tips on possibilities for work. Time enough 
for that tomorrow, especially since Lorraine’s 
answer had provided sufficient money for imme¬ 
diate needs. 

He drew a folded roll of banknotes from his 
trousers pocket. These he counted closely and di¬ 
vided into two amounts. The larger sum he 
secreted inside his vest, and replaced the remainder 
whence it came. Then he opened the door and 
stepped into the room. 

Gilda, a flutter of orchid chiffon, precipitated her¬ 
self toward him. He clasped her for a moment, 
and then held her at arms’ length to drink in her 
loveliness. 

“How beautiful you are!” he exclaimed. “I love 
you more than ever, in that dress.” 

“Do you remember it?” 

“Let me see—” He pretended difficulty in plac¬ 
ing it. “Let me see—haven’t you worn it before?” 

“Arthur! Don't you remember?” 

“Now I know!” He laughed in boyish pleasure 
at the success of his strategy. “Of course I remem¬ 
ber ! The first time we met!” 

He swept her again into his arms. Then looking 
downward into her upturned face he continued: 

“But why all the glad rags?” 

Gilda smiled bravely. 

“It was a lucky dress for me—I had a hunch—I 


After the Ball 93 

thought maybe if I wore it tonight I would hear 
good news.” 

“Good news?” 

“Yes—I hoped—Oh, Arthur! Did you get it?” 

“Get what? What do you mean?” 

“The position! Did you get it? I wore the 
dress so we could celebrate, if you did.” 

“Well—” Arthur was in a dilemma. This was 
too precipitate. He groped for time. 

“Well, I haven't actually been hired,” he an¬ 
swered. “But I am to meet a man at the club who 
has promised me a job tomorrow.” 

Gilda drooped at mention of the club. Instinc¬ 
tively she was aware of the enmity of this masculine 
institution to the tranquillity of the conjugal edifice 
she was trying to erect. Arthur noticed that her 
spirits sagged, and was prepared, as a result of his 
maneuver in the hallway, for just such an emer¬ 
gency. He placed a hand in his trousers pocket for 
the smaller portion of his money and exhibited it to 
her, saying: 

“See! This isn't a loan. It's an advance against 
the commission I am going to make.” 

Gilda brightened. It wasn’t the money, primar¬ 
ily. It was its offer of surcease from pressing wor¬ 
ries that cheered her. She made no move to take it, 
but as he returned the roll to his pocket, she asked 
eagerly: 

“Now can we pay the hotel bill?” 

Arthur nodded. 

“Of course—and have plenty besides.” 

“Really plenty ?” 


94 


After the Ball 


Arthur nodded again. His reassurance brought 
to her a promise of fulfillment of the wishes she had 
cherished. Glowing with a bounding hope she con¬ 
tinued : 

“Then tomorrow, while you are looking for your 
job, I can look for a real home! We’ll move from 
here—we’ll get an inexpensive little flat, where I 
can do our cooking, and your laundry, and things! 
We’ll have our own home!” 

The idea almost overcame her, but still she nestled 
it close to her, letting it expand and grow with the 
warmth of her longing. As if to satisfy herself by 
hearing her conclusions spoken aloud, she 
elaborated: 

“Oh, Arthur! Think! Our own place! We’ll 
be happy ever after, Jike I used to read in the fairy 
books. And I’ll work, too!” 

Arthur placed a finger in negation against her 
lips. He shook his head masterfully at her sugges¬ 
tion that she contribute to the nebulous family in¬ 
come. Not he. Not he to let his wife work. If 
he wasn’t man enough to support her, why— 

“Oh, but just for a while, at first, until you are 
firmly on your feet,” she persuaded. “Of course, 
after awhile I might not be able—” 

“You darling!” 

He clasped her closer to him, but she withheld 
herself for an interval. 

“Please, just at first?” she begged. 

“I don’t know—perhaps, just at first.” Arthur 
magnanimously allowed himself to be wheedled into 
consent. 


After the Ball 


95 


So much for that. His tactics were proving* 
themselves admirably. Now for a flank movement, 
and the victorious skirmish of the finale. 

“Lord! I nearly forgot!” 

His manifest agitation as he glanced hastily at 
his watch impressed her. Questioningly she drew 
apart to wait his explanation. 

“I am so sorry,” he told her. “You see, Fve got 
to meet this man to see him about the job. He’s 
probably waiting now. I’ve got to hurry.” 

“Oh—then we won’t have dinner together?” 

“You know I’d love to, dear, but I can’t. This 
is important. It means everything. We’ll cele¬ 
brate tomorrow night, instead.” 

“Oh!” 

“Never mind, honey. We’ll make up for it.” 

Tremors of misgivings assailed her. “Arthur?” 
she asked. 

He stopped in the act of searching in a drawer for 
a dress shirt, and looked at her. 

“Arthur, you’re not going to play cards again?” 

“Silly! Certainly not!” 

He thrust his hand into his trousers and with¬ 
drew a roll of bills, around which he pressed her 
fingers. 

“See! Now you’ve got all the money, so I can’t 
play, even if I wish.” 

Only half appreciative of what he had done, her 
mind held to the major theme. 

“You promise?” 

“I promise!” He held his hand extravagantly 
aloft in confirmation of his words. 

“But I must hurry!” 


96 


After the Ball 


He rummaged over the surface of the dresser. 
“Gilda, will you help me with this tie?” 


Soapy loitered in the shadows of the service area¬ 
way. Serving as a prop to his back, the walls of 
the Sloane residence sprawled generously over the 
grounds, one of the show-places of Long Island. 
Their white-stuccoed surfaces, the red-tiled roofs 
that mounted them to combine in a hybrid Moorish- 
Spanish Mission architecture which is peculiarly of 
modern America, gleamed theatrically beneath a 
too-perfect moon. 

It was the brilliancy of this moon that worried 
Soapy. Too sharply revealing were the rays which 
even in the purple pools of the shadows betrayed his 
features. His eyes, close set, narrowed to weasel 
pin-points. His lips compressed themselves still 
more thinly; and his ears, lobeless and low-placed, 
drew upward with the intensity of his disgust. 

For inside the house, despite all that Soapy had 
argued in dissuasion, was his partner, Three-Finger 
Murphy. Vainly Soapy had urged the discretion of 
waiting a night when the whole works would not be 
lit up like Broadway. Murphy’s retort had been 
that the Sloane job was going begging for atten¬ 
tion, and that no one ever cashed in with the fence 
by waiting. 

Soapy spat venomously. 

“The bull-headed stiff!” he muttered. “Serve 
him right if I did out-smart him.” 

The rattle of a taxi conveying some reveler 


After the Ball 


97 


tardily homeward broke Soapy’s thoughts. His 
figure stiffened, furtively alert. Then as the cab 
cruised past the ornamental gateway at the entrance 
to the grounds, he relaxed again. Near that gate¬ 
way, he knew, was their own car, ready for a geta¬ 
way. 

The silvery play of the moonlight dimmed as if 
tarnished with an unseen brush. The echoes of the 
retreating taxi became muffled, opaque; and glanc¬ 
ing, Soapy permitted himself the luxury of a smile 
as he watched a fog bank, inblown from the Atlantic, 
engorge the moon. 

From beyond the area way came the faint sibilance 
of a rubber sole caressing the cement path. 
Murphy, returning from his foray, was approaching, 
confident in the fidelity of his lookout. Murphy had 
never studied character analysis. He had never 
even heard of it. But then, Murphy was not an in¬ 
tellectual. 

As the scuffle of the shoe sounded its warning, 
the gleam of avid cunning returned to Soapy’s eyes. 
Still merging his outlines in the encloaking shadow, 
he peered carefully at his accomplice. With hungry 
satisfaction he observed the faint oblongs of the 
satchel in Murphy’s grasp. Then he drew back 
noiselessly. 

“Serve him right,” he repeated to himself. “I 
told him it wasn’t his night.” 

The other housebreaker, welcoming the increas¬ 
ing density of the fog, came nearer. About here, 
he figured, he would find Soapy. Then for a quick, 
smooth getaway, and then— 


98 


After the Ball 


His thoughts, reflecting the peculiar jingling jar¬ 
gon from Australia which had been taken up by his 
set, reverted to the twist and twirl, that’s the girl— 

Soapy’s fist clenched. When Murphy’s unshaven 
jaw came in range, the blow was launched. It 
reached its mark. Behind it was a strength oddly 
contrasting with Soapy’s apparent weakness. 
Murphy sagged, his knees doubling under him with 
comic abandon, and he went to sleep. 

Gone now was caution. One glance assured 
Soapy that there was no need to repeat the attack. 
He grabbed eagerly at the satchel. It was heavy; 
comfortingly so. Murphy’s fingers uncurled limply 
from its handle. Soapy straightened, cuddled the 
satchel securely under his arm, and ran. The fog 
helped obscure his flight across the velvety lawn. 
The gateway yawned invitingly for his exit. He 
leaped into the car parked at the side of the road. 
There was a grinding of gears, and then the crash 
of the motor exhaust curdled the fog blanket as he 
sped toward New York and safety. 

Like the rattle of a stick drawn rapidly along a 
paling fence, the reverberations of the departing 
motor seared into Murphy’s tortured brain, strug¬ 
gling back to consciousness. He staggered to his 
feet. His hand groped to his bruised jowl, and his 
swarthy face wrinkled as with pained dismay a sur¬ 
prised impression came. 

“And me, that learned him how to land a punch!” 

Then dawning realization banished the self-pity. 
Already the sound of the motor was dying in the 
distance. With it was going all hope of celebration 
with his moll. 


After the Ball 


99 


Murphy sped across the lawn, fleet for all his 
lumbering bulk. Beyond the gate stretched the 
Babylon highway. To the right, Murphy knew, 
Soapy was well on his way to the city. If only, 
now, he had that car— 

As if in answer to his wish, the beam of a spot¬ 
light pierced the mist and flickered momentarily on 
a poplar. Murphy dodged out of its zone as a 
racing model roadster, with one occupant, rounded 
a bend in the highway and approached the Sloane 
estate. 

A sudden gust of wind swept across the road, rip¬ 
ping the fog blanket. Murphy, watching anxiously, 
saw the driver’s hat lifted from his head and swirled 
to one side. There came a screech of brakes, the 
speedster halted, and its driver leaped out to retrieve 
his hat. Murphy ran forward. In the faint illumi¬ 
nation of the tail light the two figures met, sketchily 
smeared with the red rays. A gasp of alarmed sur¬ 
prise on the driver’s part, the impact of two blows 
with all of Murphy’s weight behind them, and then 
the driver’s figure lying on the asphalt. A second 
more, and the dwindling blood-shot eye of the tail- 
light winked derisively at the astonished autoist as 
the fog lowered. 


The last round of roodles—“to give the losers a 
chance”—-had been played. The banker shoved the 
deck of cards to one side, and called upon the players 
to cash in their chips. Systematically he summed 
up the money in “the bank,” and turned to the heav- 


100 After the Ball 

iest winner to exchange that player’s counters for 
cash. 

Arthur, slumped low in his chair, with a half- 
emptied highball glass dangling in his hand, gazed 
dully around the card-room. A slight headache 
gnawed annoyingly at the continuity of his thoughts. 
His eyes smarted, stung by the pungency of the 
smoke-laden air. The few English sporting prints 
which the house-committee of the club had placed 
upon the buff-toned walls, danced a rigadoon when 
his glance tried to focus upon them. 

His free hand toyed idly with the chips remaining 
in front of him. They were too few in number to 
be worthy the dignity of a stack. A red one, a few 
whites. They clicked together between his nervous 
fingers. 

The player at Arthur’s right shoved his stack 
across the baize-covered table. Use of both hands 
was necessary to accomplish the transfer of the bulky 
winnings. Red, blue and white were massed in 
orderly colors, with an appreciable showing of yel¬ 
low chips of higher denomination. Here was the 
heavy winner of the night. 

“Cleaned up, didn’t you?” observed the banker of 
the game. 

“Oh, a little—enough to make up for last night’s 
losings,” deprecated the winner. 

“Some people never know when they’re lucky,” 
complained the man at Arthur’s left. “I don’t mind 
losing; but I hate to sit all night and never get a 
hand.” 

The stereotyped phrases ricochetted against the 
shell of introspection which Arthur had built around 


After the Ball 


101 


him. Only vaguely he heard the winner, in good- 
humored raillery, mock at the other speaker’s plaints. 

“It’s music to the gambler’s ears, to hear the 
loser squeal,” chanted the winner. 

Arthur counted his chips. The red was worth a 
dollar. Two, three white ones—seventy-five cents. 
In all, one seventy-five—all that was left of the 
money Lorraine had sent him. It was a good thing, 
he remembered, that he had given Gilda some of the 
fund, even though it had been the smaller amount. 
He looked upon it now as a conservative precaution, 
rather than as a ruse toward her deception. 

He tossed the chips toward the banker. There 
was a jingle of silver in exchange. 

“Better luck next time,” commiserated the banker. 

Arthur nodded, and rose. He murmured some¬ 
thing of a good night. Still numb with the blow of 
the disastrous outcome of his venture, he found his 
way somehow downstairs, through the lobby of the 
club, past the cloak-room, and into the street. A 
few steps carried him from the club to the corner of 
the side street and Fifth Avenue. 

The freshness of the .night air recalled him to his 
senses and swept away the fuzziness of his thoughts. 
There had been a rain. The avenue, deserted ex¬ 
cept by a few late wayfarers, stretched invitingly up¬ 
town, with its globes of light reflected in the wet 
paving like twin diamond necklaces upon a velvet 
cloth. 

As he strode aimlessly toward Central Park, re¬ 
proaches and incriminations flashed sharply through 
his brain. What an asinine figure he had cut, he 
told himself. And what an imbecile he had been, 


102 


After the Ball 


to believe that if he tried “just once more/’ his luck 
would change and allow him to beat the game! 

Fool! “Father was right”—and he smiled mirth¬ 
lessly at the pat appropriateness of the catch-phrase. 
He scourged himself with rebukes, words and 
phrases lashing his spirit into self-humiliation. 
What right had he to suppose that he had it in him 
to make something of himself, as he had set out 
so grandiosely to do? Yes, Father was right. 
He was just a ne’er-do-well. 

The park entrance opened invitingly when he 
reached the Plaza. He swung past the St. Gaudens 
equestrian statue of Sherman, and through the por¬ 
tals. A path wound beckoningly into the shadow- 
shrouded mazes of the park. Here were solitude, 
seclusion, where he might submerge in the envelop¬ 
ing darkness the remorse that was dogging him. 

The pathway turned sharply to the left, and he 
came upon a bench placed circumspectly under an 
arc-light. It offered repose. His footsteps lagged, 
and a great weariness came upon him. He sank 
down to the bench, slouched himself lower so that 
his head found a resting-place against the back, and 
extended his legs, sprawling, in front of him—a 
study in black and white of evening dress against 
the somber background of foliage. 

Across a depression in the landscape, beneath an¬ 
other arclight, he saw the figure of a lounging park 
policeman—a “sparrow-cop,” he remembered they 
were called. His gaze lingered on the policeman— 
then he became aware of another figure nearer him; 
one equally familiar. It was the presence of his 


After the Ball 103 

remorse, mumbling again the excoriating condem¬ 
nations. 

“Waster! Profligate!” Yes, worse than that— 
“A liar, and a cheat!” He flagellated himself with 
the thought of Gilda’s contrasting trust and devo¬ 
tion, and of his betrayal of that trust. “Weakling!” 
That was worst of all; that he did not have the 
stamina to be otherwise. 

A sable pond at the foot of the ravine blended 
with the blackness of his thoughts. Despair swept 
over him. Of what use to carry on? 


CHAPTER VIII 


M URPHY cursed, and jammed his brakes down 
hard. As the brake band bit in, the tires of the 
racer cried in shrill protest at the sudden cessation 
of the onward rush. 

The momentum of the car carried it forward at 
first seemingly without diminution, and the driver 
peered anxiously around the glass windshield. He 
had caught a momentary glimpse of a red light 
bobbing ahead, and his gaze, piercing through the 
obscurity of the fog, confirmed his sense of danger., 
The car struck a wet patch upon the asphalt. The 
rear end skidded dizzily to one side, and the auto 
careened toward the ditch. 

Murphy struggled with the wheel. He gave way 
to the side lurch, and then managed to straighten 
the auto in its course. There was a hair-breadth 
escape from crashing into the wagon of a huckster 
who was nodding sleepily over his reins, and then 
Murphy stepped on the accelerator again. 

He rubbed hurriedly at the gathering moisture 
upon the windshield. Before him ran the ribbon¬ 
like boulevard of the Babylon highway. Some¬ 
where beyond the farthest point illuminated by his 
headlights, he knew, was Soapy. 

Beyond was Soapy, and his precious treasure 
trove. Still further beyond lay New York, with its 
labyrinth of streets, its bee-hive of buildings, its 


After the Ball 


105 


thousand and one places of sanctuary where the 
fugitive might laugh in security against Murphy’s 
pursuit. Above all, it was necessary to overtake 
the car ahead before Soapy reached his destination. 

Beside the driver roared a panorama of ghostly 
trees, telephone poles and dwellings, rushing upon 
him for a brief space of illumination in the beams of 
his lights, then being left swiftly behind to oblivion. 

At fifty, sixty, sixty-five, seventy, the needle of 
the speedometer paused to note the driver’s speed. 
Still Murphy tried further to urge the finely-tuned 
motor. 

“I’ll catch him, if I have to break my neck!” he 
vowed. 

Stark white in the ray of the searchlight, a traffic 
sign raised a warning arm aloft. A huge “S” paint¬ 
ed on the boards told of the trap that lay ahead. He 
shut off the gas. Too late—already he had swung 
into the first of the curves. 

The smell of rubber burning under heavy friction 
was left behind as Murphy’s reckless handling of 
the brakes checked the speed of the car. The vehicle 
skithered around the bend. The wheels on the in¬ 
ner radius of the roadway rose perilously from the 
ground. Murphy was stricken with a sinking sense 
of his dependency upon the unknown quantity lying 
in the strength of the outer wheels. Then the car 
settled again and was upon the other curve. 

By good fortune instinct guided him. At that 
precise moment which professional racing drivers 
have learned to know so well, he “gave her the gun” 
just as the car seemed doomed to crash through a 
line of fence-posts. There was a shower of dust 


106 


After the Ball 


and gravel as the off wheels slid from the paving 
into the dirt, and then he was upon the fairway 
again. 

For mile after rushing mile he rocketed through 
the landscape. Farm yard dogs scarcely had time 
to raise a resentful bark before he had passed out of 
sight. 

Once, where workmen had been repairing the 
road, a sharp detour rose instantaneously ahead. 
He had no time to turn. The car bounced and 
jolted over ploughed-up surfacing, and his wrists 
grew numb with the strain of holding the wheel 
within his tortured grasp. 

Once there was a metallic tinkle as he grazed the 
side of an auto parked beside the road, its occupants 
too immersed in their own affairs to be aware of 
how near they were to continuing their idyl in 
eternity. 

And at the long end, when Murphy was being 
torn with fear that Soapy had taken a more circui¬ 
tous route, he was rewarded by the sight of a blink¬ 
ing tail-light as it topped the rise of a hill ahead 
and then disappeared. 

‘Tve got him!” Murphy exulted. “Fll teach him 
—the double-crosser—!” 

He boomed toward the top of the hill, the power¬ 
ful engine increasing its speed in spite of the sharp 
ascension. At the crest the fog had lifted. Where 
the roadway dipped downward again, Murphy 
gained a clear view. At the foot of the grade he 
caught a glimpse of Soapy’s speeding car, thrown 
into bright relief secondarily by the headlight of an 


After the Ball 107 

onrushing electric train across whose tracks the 
highway ran. 

Murphy dropped like a plummet down the grade. 
The electric train entered a signal block, and the 
automatic bell at the grade-crossing began a clamor 
of alarm, while at the same time the crossing gates 
lowered themselves like long white arms across the 
right-of-way. But Murphy did not try to decrease 
his speed. 

The motorman in the van of the train, catching 
sight of Murphy’s approach, pulled hysterically at 
the whistle cord. The airbrakes of the train were 
thrown on with an abruptness which jolted passen¬ 
gers from their seats. Sure that a crash was in¬ 
evitable, the motorman could only hope that the 
momentum of the train would be lessened sufficiently 
to save the foolhardy driver’s life. 

Only imperceptibly checked, the train was almost 
upon the crossing, with Murphy and his car but a 
few rods beyond the tracks. The motorman’s 
whistle shrieked once more despairingly, and the 
heavy steel line of coaches dashed across the road. 

Just as the last car had cleared the crossing there 
was a splintering of wood as the metal projectile of 
Murphy’s car struck the crossing gates. Fragments 
of the barriers hurtled through the air. Murphy, 
who had ducked low in the car at the moment of 
impact, wiped away a stain of blood where a sliver 
of the shattered windshield had brushed his cheek. 
He had not slackened speed. The engine still 
roared its gloating sense of power, and its driver re¬ 
sponded to its call. The auto seemed intact so far 


108 


After the Ball 


as running ability was concerned. That was all 
that mattered, except that the slight delay again had 
given Soapy a lead. Dogged in his determination 
to nullify this loss, Murphy settled to the monotony 
of his pursuit. 

He was entering the outskirts now of Long Island 
City. The dwelling places were becoming more fre¬ 
quent as he shot past the shabby structures that 
dotted, like a sporadic rash, the territory beyond the 
city’s fevered center. Again for an instant he had 
a vision of Soapy’s car, this time appreciably nearer. 
Meteorlike he blazed his way through the deserted 
avenues. 

The approach to Queensborough Bridge. The 
agonizing necessity of slackening speed, lest a traf¬ 
fic policeman by coincidence be awake to halt him 
with a fusilade of shots into his tires. Below the 
gossamer span of the bridge, the dark outlines of 
Blackwell’s Island in the East River. 

Murphy had hoped never to be so close to the 
penal institution on the Island; and in the same 
manner in which a drowning man is said to re¬ 
hearse the lightning flashes of his life, so Murphy, 
diverted by the thought, found amusement, in the 
hurly-burly of the chase, by picturing the astonish¬ 
ment of the prison officials on the Island if he were 
suddenly to swerve through the bridge railing and 
crash down, uninvited, among them. 

The thought diverted him so long that he had 
barely time, at the Manhattan end of the bridge, to 
avoid being hurtled into Paradise by the imminence 
of a collision with a motor fire engine. He shivered 
at the narrowness of his escape, not from death, but 


After the Ball 


109 


from being placed under arrest for obstructing the 
passage of the fire-fighting apparatus. This was 
no time to indulge in diplomatic discourse with a 
policeman. 

But at this stage of the game of hare and hound, 
Soapy also was finding his way impeded. Despite 
the lateness of the hour, the traffic of heavy-laden 
trucks, conveying the multitudinous necessities 
which the metropolis daily draws from the rest of 
the world to feed upon, was still so thick that Soapy 
was forced to pick his way with care. But soon, 
he knew, he would reach Third Avenue where it 
crosses Fifty-ninth street. There he would swing 
southward, and be lost in the catacombs of the living 
that make up the city’s lower East Side. 

He indulged in a chuckle or two at the thought of 
Murphy’s debacle. It had been a perfect getaway. 
Nothing had marred the success of the scheme which 
had come as by inspiration while he was waiting for 
Murphy on the grounds of the Sloane estate. 
Pretty smooth, he thought; and with the necessity 
for intensive attention to his driving no longer 
pressing, he permitted himself the luxury of a side¬ 
ways glance at a girl upon the sidewalk, some late 
worker returning to her home. 

Fastened to the left-hand side of the auto wind¬ 
shield was a searchlight, pivoted upon a bracket. 
On the side of the light opposite the lens, placed in 
such position as to give the driver a tell-tale view of 
the road behind him, was a concave mirror. Soapy’s 
eyes, trying vainly to catch an answering gleam in 
those of the girl, caught instead a glint of light in 
the silvered surface of the mirror- 


110 


After the Ball 


It was a momentary annoyance, and he closed his 
eyes in automatic reaction to the flash. Yet some¬ 
thing in the field of vision encompassed by the mir¬ 
ror lingered in his mind. He looked into the mirror 
again, this time sharply. Behind him, being driven 
as rapidly as its lone occupant dared, was a racing 
car that looked the worse for wear. Beyond the 
place where the windshield should have been were 
the driver’s outlines, outlines dismayingly familiar. 

Soapy gulped. The hair prickled on the back of 
his neck. He remembered what Murphy once had 
told him: “There’s only one thing to do with a 
double-crosser, and that ain’t the half of what ’ud 
happen to anybody that ’ud try to gyp me.” 

And here was Murphy close behind him, and his 
getaway ruined at the moment of its conclusion! 
He dared not turn so quickly to the haven he sought 
—as quickly as he had planned. 

Murphy, with the lust of the stag-hound closing 
upon its prey, risked arrest and accident as he quick¬ 
ened his pace to overtake Soapy and end the pur¬ 
suit. A block, two blocks, and then he would force 
Soapy, at the point of a gun, to the curb. There 
would be a report or two, similar- to the backfiring 
of a motor exhaust, arid then Murphy would be 
free to keep his rendezvous with the twist and twirl. 

Here the Weaver at the Loom interrupted the 
shuttle in its motion to introduce a subsidiary figure 
in the design. Where the flowing arteries of the 
city intersect at Third and Fifty-ninth, he drew a 
construction train, along the street-car tracks, 
across the trail. To complete his pattern’s mystic 
purpose, he allowed Soapy first to pass beyond the 


After the Ball 


111 


intersection. Murphy, though, the Omnipotent 
One halted in mid-pursuit. In the weft and warp 
of the web, the tangled threads were still to run. 

When the train had jolted slowly out of his way, 
Murphy’s motor leaped ahead; but Soapy’s car 
again was dwindling in the distance, and Murphy 
was broken-hearted. Only by a miracle, he feared, 
could he retrieve the advantage lost by the disastrous 
jest of circumstance. 

Through the long blocks of the cross streets cut¬ 
ting through the avenues went quarry and pursuer. 
Soapy, dividing his watch between Murphy in the 
mirror and the pathway ahead, grew still more 
panicky as he saw that the car behind him was over¬ 
taking him. There was no time now to maneuver 
for an escape by dodging through the grid-ironed 
streets. He glanced around in desperation, like a 
fox cornered with the pack at its heels. 

The St. Gaudens statue of Sherman rose abruptly 
ahead, like a landmark, to tell his shattered nerves 
that the park was close at hand. Here was refuge; 
a place of shadows, of hidden by-ways, and of 
twisting paths where Murphy no longer would have 
the advantage of a faster car, and where he might 
shake off his Nemesis. 

Hastily he swerved in his course and swung up 
the avenue. The Fifty-ninth street entrance was 
too public a place at which to abandon his car and 
dart through the park gateway. Ahead, he knew, 
was a pedestrian entrance, and toward this he sped. 

At the next street he was forced anew to lose 
time by swinging his car around to face downtown 
with the traffic. The operation brought him beside 


112 


After the Ball 


the curbing, with the footpath entrance beyond the 
sidewalk. He stopped his motor; left the car to be 
found by its owner; reached to the floor of the car 
for the bulky satchel for which he had risked so 
much, and ran into the park. 


CHAPTER IX 


JK RTHUR TREVELYAN laughed at himself 
for having considered the park lake as a solu¬ 
tion to his difficulties. Somewhere, he remembered, 
he had read that it is only youth that takes itself so 
seriously as to seek suicide to escape troubles. He 
was glad, he told himself, that he had enough sense 
of humor to see the absurdity of his notion. 

With the veering weathercock of his thoughts 
came a brighter outlook. His processes of the fu¬ 
ture seemed ridiculously simple. He rehearsed just 
what he would do—go home, confess to Gilda his 
deceptions and unworthiness, cajole her into for¬ 
giveness, and tomorrow get that job in earnest. 
Heretofore, he knew, he had only been trying half¬ 
heartedly. It was nonsense, he argued, to suppose 
that in this city of six millions there was no oppor¬ 
tunity for a man of his advantages. 

With decision came action. He rose to his feet 
from the park bench, stretched himself to start his 
blood pulsing again through his cramped legs, and 
started to straighten his attire so that Gilda would 
not think he had been on a carousal. His hand was 
upon his tie—and then he paused. 

Nearby someone was running, hurrying along a 
pathway. The sound of the quickened footsteps 
grew louder. Whoever was making use of the park 
for a midnight race-course was approaching in his 


114 


After the Ball 


direction—probably along the same path, since it 
was the only one in close vicinity. Some high 
school youngster, he surmised, training for a minia¬ 
ture Marathon. He adjusted his tie and stooped to 
regain his walking-stick from the ground where it 
had fallen. 

Nearer came the sounds of the runner. There 
was something sinister, stealthy—not the free, long 
strides of one merely seeking exercise. He drew 
back into the shadows. Now he could hear the 
runner panting, gasping for breath. 

The next moment Soapy, carrying the satchel, 
swung around the bend in the pathway and into the 
play of light upon the pavement. He was glancing 
backward over his shoulder in dread of the fearsome 
avenger pursuing him, and at first, as he entered, did 
not notice Arthur. 

The glare of the illumination confused and 
startled him. He was a shining mark, he knew, for 
a chance shot, should Murphy be near enough to 
see him. Cursing at this trick of chance, he plunged 
into the shadow, and collided suddenly with Arthur. 

Both men were jarred and shaken by the unex¬ 
pectedness of the encounter. Soapy lurched back¬ 
ward, his hand groping toward his shoulder-holster. 

“Wot t’ell?” he demanded. He started in amaze¬ 
ment at the whiteness of Arthur’s shirt and the un¬ 
accustomed spectacle of a man in evening dress lurk¬ 
ing in the darkness of Central Park at midnight. 

Arthur’s demeanor convinced Soapy that there 
was nothing to fear, at least, in this quarter. He 
was about to resume his flight when an idea oc- 


After the Ball 115 

curred. Perhaps, by a trick, he might throw Mur¬ 
phy off his trail. 

He pulled out his hand from beneath his coat. 
The next moment Arthur found himself staring into 
the muzzle of a revolver of business-like size and 
menace. 

“Put ’em up, quick!” Soapy ordered. 

Arthur was too amazed at the quickness of the 
hold-up immediately to comply. Soapy punctuated 
his command by jabbing the gun against Arthur’s 
ribs. 

“Come on—up with the mits! And don’t try any 
funny business!” 

Arthur raised his arms upward. This was a 
fitting finale to the evening’s fiasco, he observed 
mentally, and he grinned back at Soapy’s scowling 
countenance. 

“You’re too late, old top,” he advised Soapy. 
“The others beat you to it.” 

“Never mind the gab,” Soapy growled. He 
dropped the satchel at his feet, and ran his free hand 
swiftly over Arthur’s body. When he had assured 
himself that Arthur was carrying no weapons, he 
stepped backward a pace. 

“Now take ’em off,” was his instruction. 

“Do—what?” Arthur could not believe what he 
had heard. 

“Take ’em off—get out of the glad rags.” 

Ideas were coming too rapidly for Arthur’s com¬ 
prehension. His puzzled expression forced Soapy 
to explain. 


116 


After the Ball 


“We’re swapping clothes—see? I’m going to a 
swell blow-out and I’m in a hurry! Come on— 
climb out!” 

“But—but what will I have left to wear?” queried 
Arthur as he began to shed his dinner-coat. 

“That’ll be all right—I’ll lend you mine,” Soapy 
volunteered. Carefully be placed the satchel be¬ 
tween his feet, keeping Arthur covered the while, 
and began to exchange the nondescript apparel, 
which he had donned for the night’s business, for 
Arthur’s immaculate attire. 

At this moment Murphy, who had almost given 
up hope of overtaking Soapy, was forced to check 
his pursuit at the point where the Avenue and Fifty- 
ninth street cross. As he waited for the interven¬ 
ing traffic to pass he glanced anxiously up and down 
the famous thoroughfare. A block or two north he 
observed the dim outlines of a car resembling that 
which he had been pursuing. On the off-chance 
that his guess was correct he turned rapidly and 
sped toward it. 

Yes, he saw, here was Soapy’s car, left where its 
driver had run from it. Close by was the entrance 
to the foot-path leading into the park. Murphy 
knew the direction which one following the path 
must take. To pursue Soapy along that would be 
to run into almost certain ambush. Better to drive 
beyond, enter the park at the bridle path ahead, and 
double backward along the way—heading off 
Soapy’s escape. He swung around a slowly moving 
bus, reached the equestrian drive, jumped from his 
car, and ran noiselessly along the soft dirt road. 


After the Ball 


117 


Soapy now, forcing Arthur to play the role of 
valet, was slipping into the commandeered dinner- 
coat. He surveyed his stolen finery with satisfac¬ 
tion. The garments fitted well enough. Once away 
from this vicinity, he was sure that if Murphy were 
to see his outlines in the distance, he would remain 
unrecognized. 

He concealed the satchel beneath the dinner coat, 
lest its presence betray him. Swinging Arthur’s 
walking stick in his hand, he started to leave, then 
paused for a parting word of advice: 

“Now don’t get gay and try to follow me, or—” 

He waved the gun for emphasis, then ran. 

Arthur, bewildered at his loss of raiment, gazed 
wildly about for the policeman he had seen earlier 
in the night. The officer was not in sight. He 
started to run after Soapy, disregarding the other’s 
warning, but the chilliness of his bare knees re¬ 
minded him that he was ill-prepared either for pur¬ 
suit or observation. Quickly he retraced his steps, 
and began donning Soapy’s cast-off clothes. 

Soapy, yards farther along the path, trotted fur¬ 
tively, taking advantage of the soft turf that rimmed 
the pavement, in order that his footsteps might be 
muffled. 

He reached the intersection of the walk and a 
bridle path. He paused, undecided whether to go 
farther into the recesses of the park, or to swing 
back to the streets again and profit by his masquer¬ 
ade in Arthur’s clothes. 

He chose the latter course. His feet made no 
sound along the driveway, softened by the churning 


118 


After the Ball 


of many hoofs. He advanced more confidently 
now; then stopped, frozen into immobility with fear. 
Ahead, so near that the sound was like a thunder¬ 
clap, a twig had snapped under pressure of a foot. 

He faded, rather than moved, into the protection 
of a clump of rhododendron that lined the drive. 
He was being stalked. He knew it, and even his 
pounding heart seemed in a conspiracy to betray him 
to his hunter, so drumlike were its beats. 

Murphy, merged in the silhouette of a tree trunk, 
had seen Soapy approach. He had raised his gun 
at first glimpse, in wary alertness to send home 
without quarter the one shot that would avenge his 
companion’s treachery. But he had been incautious; 
his foot had moved in the litter of the underbrush, 
and now his target had disappeared among the 
shadows. 

Neither man dared make the first move. Each 
knew that to be exposed for an instant meant death. 
Catlike, each crouched, waiting. The furry darkness 
was at once an ally and a trap. 

Soapy’s throat tickled. He tried to swallow, but 
his muscles were atrophied. Soon he must cough, 
scream, anything to end the impossible tension. 
Murphy, stolid, self-contained, coldly weighed each 
possible move in the desperate game. 

And then he acted. Cautiously, gently, inch by 
inch, he lowered his left hand to the ground and 
groped noiselessly on the turf. His fingers touched 
the cold hard outlines of a stone. With equal care 
he lifted it, poised its weight for a second in his 
hand, then hurled it toward the shadow into which 
he had seen Soapy disappear. 


119 


After the Ball 

The missile swished through the shrubbery. It 
snapped off a rotted branch and fell to earth. 
Soapy’s jangled nerves gave way. The ruse had 
done its work. Hysterically, in an ecstasy of terror, 
he fired wildly into the darkness. Twice, three 
times, his fingers pressed the trigger of his revolver. 
Each time the gold and purple spurts of flame 
marked only too well the position of his body behind 
the gun. 

With the first powder flash, Murphy was poised, 
alert. His gun was levelled at the unseen target. 
The second flash revealed behind it a pallid face 
twisted with terror. Murphy shifted his aim a de¬ 
gree—a little to the right of the jetting fire, and a 
little below the face. When the third explosion 
came, he fired in return. 

On the heels of the echoing report there was a 
faint cough, a sigh, and the soft thud of an object 
sinking inertly to the earth. Then—silence. 

Murphy had heard that sound before. He knew 
that Soapy was not capable of simulating so cleverly 
the death-throe of a man hit vitally. Not too care¬ 
fully now, sure of the accuracy of his aim, he ap¬ 
proached the thing he knew was lying beneath the 
rhododendrons. 

He knelt and groped. There, where the dead 
man’s hand still clenched its handle, Murphy found 
the satchel. He lifted it. It was still heavy—then 
Soapy had not disposed of the loot. He rose and 
ran, back in the direction from which Soapy had 
come. 

Arthur Trevelyan was buttoning the last of his 
enforced raiment when the stuttering sound of the 


120 


After the Ball 


four revolver shots volleyed across the park and 
echoed against the apartments lining the avenue in 
the distance. He was arrested in midaction. In¬ 
decision overcame him, doubt whether to seek the 
streets and safety, or to advance in the direction of 
the reports. His mind connected unerringly the 
shooting with the astounding episode of the ma¬ 
rauder who had robbed him of his clothes. 

And as he paused, there came again the sound of 
running feet along the pavement; accelerated steps 
again advancing toward him, but this time from the 
direction of the fusillade. He threw discretion 
aside. Partly to halt the obvious fugitive, but prin¬ 
cipally to regain the evening clothes that would be 
so hard to replace, he leaped from the obscurity of 
the shrubbery onto the path. The following instant 
he and Murphy found themselves tussling in each 
other’s embrace. 

Arthur was conscious only of a gleaming weapon 
in his opponent’s hand—a polished menace that he 
seized and clung to with tenacious frenzy. The 
strength of the other, as Arthur struggled to re¬ 
tain his hold, swung him off his feet. He slipped, 
fell, sprawled on the ground, but still his fingers 
were locked around Murphy’s wrist. 

Murphy was pulled to the earth also by the weight 
of Arthur’s body. Over and over the two rolled, 
Murphy cursing vehemently at this intruder who 
had stopped his flight when the coast seemed clear. 

The two rolled from the grass upon the pavement. 
Arthur’s face was sharply illumined by the beams of 
the light. Murphy, in shadow, could not place the 
features. They were not those of a member of any 


After the Ball 


121 


rival mob, nor yet of a plainclothes flatty. Arthur 
closed his eyes as Murphy swung aloft the satchel 
and brought it flail-like down upon his adversary’s 
head. 

Stung and spurred to superhuman effort by the 
blow, Arthur tensed his torso and tossed violently to 
one side. He caught Murphy off his balance. 
Wrestling, wrenching every fibre for supremacy, the 
two, still locked in each other’s arms, staggered to 
their feet. 

Arthur felt Murphy’s wrists tighten, and a trig¬ 
ger-finger move. A stinging pain shot through the 
fleshy part of his hand as the hammer fell upon it. 
The satchel rose and fell with maddening effect. 
Soon, Arthur knew, he must give up the unequal 
conflict unless help came. He strained every muscle 
to hold still tighter to his opponent. To be free 
meant a bullet through his side. 

Murphy, bulldog-like, shook and tossed his cap- 
tor. He glanced over Arthur’s shoulder, unseeing 
at first, and then with startled recognition of what 
he saw. 

Across the pond, where Arthur had first spied the 
park policeman, Murphy glimpsed the flash of brass 
button as the officer, tardily aroused from his 
slumber, lumberingly ran toward the vicinity of the 
shots he had heard. 

The spectacle roused Murphy to a crucial effort. 
He raised the heavy satchel again above his head, 
and brought it down with crushing force. Arthur 
glanced upward just in time. He dodged his head 
to one side. The downward sweep of the satchel 
glanced from the side of his head and struck his 


122 


After the Ball 


shoulder. The force of the blow was more than 
the handle-stitching could support. There was a 
noise of tearing leather, and the satchel flew from 
Murphy’s grasp, leaving only the handle in his 
fingers. 

This was a reverse of fortune too strong even for 
Murphy’s presence of mind. He jumped for the 
satchel as it flew into the shadows. His motion as 
he tried to free himself from Arthur’s clutch released 
his tension upon the revolver butt, and the weapon 
came loose in Arthur’s fingers. Murphy glanced, 
in a transport of agitation, for the lost satchel, and 
failed to see it lying behind the bench. His gaze at 
the same time rested momentarily upon the police¬ 
man, now running nearer along the path. Here 
was more than a Waterloo; it was a rout. Lost 
were loot, moll, revenge, everything except freedom 
and life itself. He turned precipitately, and fled. 

Arthur, pulling himself together from the ordeal 
of the beating he had received, suddenly became 
acutely aware that his prisoner was gone. He 
stared, bewildered, at the weapon in his hand. Why 
had he not had sense enough to halt the fugitive ? he 
wondered. He recalled the satchel, and the other’s 
frantic and interrupted search for it. 

He looked superficially around. It was not to be 
seen in the circle of light. He stepped experiment¬ 
ally toward the bushes, then turned back. No use 
hunting for it in the dark. 

His foot struck an object lying near the bench. 
The thing gave way to the pressure. He looked 
downward. There, with the rents showing where 
the handle had been wrenched away, was the satchel. 


After the Ball 


123 


He stooped, Murphy’s revolver still dangling in his 
grasp, and picked it up, gazing curiously at the un¬ 
opened bag. 

A burly hand clutched at his collar. A paralyz¬ 
ing blow from a night-stick knocked the revolver 
from his grasp. He whirled, tugging against the 
fist at his collar, and sought the source of the fresh 
onslaught. With club upraised, ready to strike at 
the first sign of resistance, the park policeman glared 
into Arthur’s face. 

“Not a move, now,” the officer warned, “or I’ll 
brain ye within an inch of yer life!” 

Arthur stammered expostulations to his captor. 

“But wait!” he argued. “The man you want is 
gone.” 

“Yes, an’ he’ll never be back upon this earth, 
from the looks of this,” the officer replied, motion¬ 
ing toward Murphy’s revolver upon the pavement. 

“Biut I tell you he went running in that direc¬ 
tion !” Arthur tried to motion toward the angle of 
Murphy’s departure. He received a numbing blow 
from the night-stick, and subsided. 

“Never mind that!” the policeman cautioned. 
“It’s you we’re talkin’ about, the now. What’ve you 
got here?” 

Arthur yielded the satchel. The policeman 
grasped it with his free hand, then, cautious, re¬ 
turned it. 

“Open it yerself,” he ordered. “And remimber, 
I’ve got you covered.” 

With fumbling fingers, Arthur pried at the clasps. 
One was wedged tightly, and he broke a finger-nail 


124 


After the Ball 


in pulling it from its socket. Then the latch clicked, 
and the bag spread apart. 

Their heads drew together as they gazed at the 
contents of the satchel. The policeman gasped in 
astonishment. He lowered his night-stick in his 
awe at what he saw. Then he looked up at Arthur 
almost in admiration. 

“Saints above us!” he exclaimed. “It’s a king’s 
ransom! Ye’re no pintling of a thief, at that!” 

Arthur glanced again into the bag. Crammed into 
the receptacle, glinting, coruscating, throwing off 
icicles of fire as they reflected the light overhead, 
he saw diamonds, pearls, sapphires, emeralds—an 
Aladdin’s wealth of precious gems transmigrated by 
the touch of a modern genie. Matched strands of 
priceless pearls were tangled and jumbled with bar- 
pins, heavy with platinum, studded with flawless 
blue-white diamonds worth fortunes in themselves. 
A coronet in delicate lacery, encrusted wifh square- 
cut stones and flashing brilliants, reposed in a corner 
of the bag. Dinner-rings, pear-shaped pendants, 
solitaires burning with frigid glow, platinum and 
diamond-mounted fancies of the lapidary, were 
mixed in confusion, where they had been tossed by 
the ravishers of the Sloane estate. 

“It’s a shame to give it up, an’ I’m sorry for ye,” 
murmured the policeman, spellbound at the sight. 

The implication stirred Arthur from his rapt 
admiration of the jewels. 

“You—you don’t think I stole them?” he pro¬ 
tested. 

The policeman laughed. 


After the Ball 


125 


“Sure not,” he replied. “Yer fairy godmother 
gave them to ye fer bein’ a good boy.” He remem¬ 
bered the sound of firing that had brought him there, 
and added: “And as a reward, as like as not, fer 
shootin’ up yer pal.” 

“Shooting? I?” Arthur struggled to express 
how absurd the idea seemed. “Why, I’ve been here 
all the time.” 

“Well, we’ll just take a little walk and see what 
we can find.” 

The policeman shoved Arthur ahead, in accor¬ 
dance with his words. They traced the way along 
which Arthur had seen Soapy go, and Murphy come. 
Their progress was slow. With each step the po¬ 
liceman flashed the rays of his pocket searchlight 
upon the pavement. 

They reached the bridle path, and the officer hes¬ 
itated, then turned haphazard to the right. They 
approached the rhododendrons, were about to pass. 
The cone of light playing from the policeman’s hand 
flickered over a little rivulet creeping upon the pave¬ 
ment. 

The light shifted and followed the tiny dark- 
colored stream to its source. In the electric beam 
the strangely distorted outlines of Soapy leaped into 
vision. 

“I thought as much,” the officer said grimly. He 
turned to Arthur and snapped handcuffs upon his 
prisoner’s wrists. The precaution was a needless 
one. A chilling premonition of his predicament 
robbed Arthur of volition. 

The policeman knelt beside what was left of 


126 After the Ball 

Soapy and listened. He shook his head, then rose 
again. 

“Ye’ll go to the chair fer this,” he prophesied. 

Arthur was aghast at the construction. 

“You don’t mean—that—that I had anything to 
do with this?” 

“What else?” 

“But I was back where you found me—he held 
me up.” In fragments, incoherently, Arthur tried 
to relate what, so far as he knew, had happened. 
The policeman cut him short. 

“That’s a likely story, and you standin’ there with 
a gat in yer hand, still warm!” 

“I tell you it’s true! He’s wearing my clothes 
now! See!” Arthur started to kneel, to reveal 
the name-cards in the pocket of his dinner coat. He 
was roughly, violently jerked back to his feet. The 
policeman glanced contemptuously at Arthur’s 
shabby attire. 

“You! Ye don’t know what a decent suit of 
clothes is like! Be quiet, now! What ye say will 
be used aginst ye!” 

Arthur tried once more to unravel this tangle of 
disastrous incident. 

“Won’t you listen? Won’t you let me explain?” 

“Aw, tell it to th’ judge!” 

Arthur fell silent. He was crushed by realiza¬ 
tion of the futility of using words to lift the burden 
of circumstantial evidence against him. He felt 
weak, gone, as if the inside of him were an aching 
emptiness. 

The shrill notes of the policeman’s whistle sum¬ 
moning assistance echoed through the park. 



hM 


I Itii* 


: .. 


IBi 

HR 


smM 

SSHti 


HI 

1111 


55 

O 

i—i 

H 

O 

P 

Q 

O 

Pi 

Ph 

o 

u 

55 

W 


i-l 

< 

PP 

w 

X 

H 

Pi 

W 

H 

«5 



"d 

<u 

• <“H 

C /2 

JO 

a 

o 

Uh 

a 

c 

c 3 

s 

<D 

CJ 

• ^H 

o 

Oh 












CHAPTER X 


(f ARE you sure there’s been no word from— 
from my husband?” The day clerk at the 
desk in the hotel lobby turned at Gilda’s anxious 
inquiry. There was a catch in her voice that moved 
him to sympathy despite his familiarity with the 
question so often asked him by wives worrying 
over errant husbands. 

It was early morning. The hard, practical light 
of a workaday world set in bold relief the pre-occu~ 
pied, intense features of the stream of passers-by on 
the sidewalk beyond, hurrying about their business. 
It etched harshly the fine lines of distress that had 
gathered on Gilda’s face during her all-night vigil. 

For all during the night she had lain awake, 
waiting to hear the elevator door outside her room 
open to Arthur’s approach; to hear his footsteps 
outside her door; to listen fearfully, expectantly, 
for the telephone’s startling summons, with its dread 
news of overwhelming catastrophe overtaking her 
husband; for something, anything rather than the 
futile necessity of remaining inactive. 

The clerk shook his head gently. 

“Not yet, Mrs. Trevelyan,” he replied. He tried 
to speak with cheer in his tones, but his profes¬ 
sional optimism failed to lift her spirits. 

She resumed her seat in a large leather chair 
against a pillar, where she might command a view 
both of the hotel entrance and the desk. She glanced 


128 


After the Ball 


again at her wrist-watch, whose hands were drag¬ 
ging with leaden weights. Never before had Arthur 
been away from her all night. Surely something 
terrible had happened. 

Out of the corner of her eye she observed the day 
clerk and hotel manager glancing at her covertly. 
She was sure that they were discussing her. The 
thought added to her disquietude. 

A bell-boy, sent to her by the manager, ap¬ 
proached. She was roused with a start from the 
abstraction of her fears as she heard him say: 

“The manager would like to see you in the private 
office.” 

She crossed the floor with increasing apprehen¬ 
sion, and had to whip herself to a semblance of 
composure as the boy motioned her into the office. 

The manager bowed at her entrance. She was 
too ill at ease to take the chair he offered. There 
was an awkward pause. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Trevelyan,” he 
began. “There’s a matter—I want to speak to 
you—” 

“Is—is it the bill?” she quavered. 

The manager shook his head. He was finding 
it hard to carry out his purpose. He lifted the 
morning paper from the litter on the desk-top. 

“Don’t worry about the bill,” he told her. “I’m 
afraid I have some other matters more serious than 
that.” 

Then it was concerning Arthur. She flashed hot 
and cold. 

“Mr. Trevelyan?” She half-whispered the ques¬ 
tion. 


After the Ball 


129 


For answer he held the paper toward her, folded 
so that the upper right-hand half of the front page 
met her eye. 

At first she saw only a field of type, a sea of head¬ 
lines that meant nothing. Then, as if inscribed in 
characters of frozen fire, the letters screamed at her: 

MILLIONAIRE’S 
SON SLAIN IN 
$150,000 THEFT 

Arthur Trevelyan, disinherited 
scion of oil magnate, shot 
to death by robber “pais” 

t- 

RICH GEM LOOT REGAINED 


Murder suspect, nabbed while 
escaping from park duel, 
yields Sloane jewelry haul 


Climaxing a daring raid upon the 
priceless collection of jewelry owned 
by Mrs. J. Fassett Sloane, of Moss- 
mere, Long Island, the body of Ar¬ 
thur Trevelyan, son of Mark Trevel¬ 
yan, California oil millionaire, was 
found murdered last night in Central 
Park. 

A few feet from the place where 
the slaying was discovered, an uniden- 






130 


After the Ball 


tified man who, the police declare, is 
proved to have been involved in the 
robbery of the Sloane mansion, was 
arrested while fleeing from the scene, 
with the jewelry, hastily thrown into 
a satchel, still in his possession. The 
presence of burglars’ tools, concealed 
in the rough coat he was wearing, 
convince the police that the prisoner 
was one of the accomplished band of 
housebreakers responsible for the 
huge theft. 

Young Trevelyan’s identity was es¬ 
tablished, according to the police, by 
means of the name-labels in the din¬ 
ner-clothes is which he was attired. 

In view of his recent alleged disinher¬ 
itance by his father, following a sen¬ 
sational elopement and marriage to 
Gilda Gay, Los Angeles screen beauty, 
police attach significance to the fact 
that only a small sum was found on 
his body. 

It is the police theory that Trevel¬ 
yan, reduced to desperate methods by 
loss of parental income, became in¬ 
volved with a band of internationally- 
known jewel bandits, and through his 
social connection, paved the way for 
the robbery. A dispute over division 
of the swag is believed to have fol¬ 
lowed, causing the gun-battle that led 
to disclosure of the dual crime. 

Gilda could read no further. The police con¬ 
jectures were too horrible to be weighed in detail. 
She was stunned, struck immobile by the paralyzing 
blow of type. 

She groped desperately for a coherent thought. 
She smiled—a mirthless reflex that twitched her lips 
—in an effort to grasp at the absurdity of the notion 
that Arthur —her Arthur—could be concerned in 
such a hideous blunder of police offlciousness. 


After the Ball 131 

Surely, she tried to reason, it was all some ghastly 
error . . . 

But suppose it were true—all true that Arthur had 
been involved with the thieves; suppose it were true 
that he had been found slain— lifeless —even as the 
euphemistic reporter had written; suppose— sup¬ 
pose . . . 

A paroxysm of grief overcame her; dry grief that 
tightened her eyes and prohibited tears. She was 
conscious of a flushed face, of pounding temples. A 
vertiginous blackness came before her. She swayed, 
and was about to fall. 

The manager’s hasty grasp of her arm restored 
her to full consciousness, and a thundering message 
echoed into her mind to the exclusion of all other 
thought. She must reach him, she told herself; 
somehow meet Arthur face to face and reassure her¬ 
self that it was all a grisly mistake on the paper’s 
part. 

“I—I’ll see about this,” she muttered thickly. 
She turned from the manager and stumbled from 
the room. 

Blindly, hurriedly, with gathering momentum as 
her feet responded automatically to the impulse of 
her desire, she passed from the private office. The 
manager’s restraining hand failed to halt her. Like 
a somnambulist with a fixed goal that admits of no 
delay, she moved across the lobby, gathering speed 
as she went, and at the entrance broke into a run¬ 
ning pace that carried her through the sidewalk 
throngs, oblivious to jostling shoulders and curious 
glances following her. 


132 


After the Ball 


Her face was distorted with an ecstasy of an¬ 
guish as she moved. Her hands twisted and tugged 
at the gloves she was holding. Her eyes were set 
upon a distant vision—a scene that shut out the 
crowd and the streets, and showed instead a body 
lying in a shadowed glen . . . 

She stepped from the curb into the street. Her fly¬ 
ing feet bore her amid the crowded flow of traffic. 
There was a shout of warning which she failed to 
hear. The driver of a limousine, almost upon her, 
cursed with alarm as he jammed on his brakes and 
discovered to his horror that he could not check 
the speed of his car in time. 

An out-jutting fender of the heavy machine struck 
her as she ran. She became aware vaguely of a 
sharp twinge as the metal bruised her side. She 
seemed to be lifted and tossed about by contending 
cyclones. 

Her head struck the paving with stunning force. 
A dazzling flood of vari-colored lights broke over 
her and ebbing suddenly, was followed by an in¬ 
creasing blackness through which the figure of Ar¬ 
thur beckoned vaguely . . . 

The traffic policeman, brushing his way through 
the ring that had gathered instantaneously around 
the fallen figure, lifted her head in his lap. Beside 
him appeared the driver of the car, his features awry 
with grief. 

“I couldn’t help it,” he exclaimed. “She ran 
right in front of me. God! I’d a-given anythin’ not 
to a hit her!” 

“That’s right,” volunteered one of the throng. “I 


After the Ball 133 

saw the whole thing. She was runnin’ like she 
was in a dream, or something.” 

The policeman bent studiously over Gilda’s face, 
paler now than the hair that framed it in dishevelled 
aureole. There was a slight movement of her lips. 
Her eyelids flickered for a moment and then were 
still. 

“Quick, somebody! Take her for a minute!” the 
policeman instructed. “Til call the ambulance.” 

He pillowed Gilda’s head in a bystander’s arms. 
His shrill whistle halted the traffic while she was 
carried to the sidewalk. Soon the clamorous gong 
of the ambulance announced its arrival on its friendly 
errand. 


CHAPTER XI 


L ORRAINE Trevelyan halted her father in their 
' stroll. Before them, but far below, the Bay of 
Monaco lay like a sapphire, set in the white gold 
of the surf line that fringed it in the distance. Al¬ 
most so near, it seemed, that they could have tossed 
a pebble on its decks, the toylike yacht of the Prince 
of Monaco rode at anchor behind the sheltering 
breakwaters that stretched their wings from near 
and farther shores. To the right of the tiny ship 
was the lighthouse, its prismed windows sparkling 
in the sun and reflected in the copper-sulphate blue 
of the Mediterranean. 

The two stepped to the stone balustrade of the ter¬ 
raced height which they had reached in their long 
walk, and abandoned themselves to the beauties of 
the vista before them. In the weeks that had fol¬ 
lowed Arthur’s departure, with his bride, from the 
Trevelyan home, Mark Trevelyan had traveled with 
nervous restlessness anywhere in Europe that might 
offer oblivion from the remorseful consciousness 
that he had been too hasty in expelling his son and 
Gilda. With him he had taken Lorraine to bring 
surcease from the unspoken reproaches which he 
felt endured so long as he remained at home; and 
with him, too, had come the haunting memory of 
Arthur’s stricken face as he paused in the dining¬ 
room doorway for the farewell that he had denied 
his son. 


After the Ball 


135 


Now, as he had done so unsuccessfully before, 
he tried to throw off the weight of realities by 
diverting himself with externals. He motioned 
sweepingly toward the horizon. 

“Seems more beautiful each time we’re here, eh?” 
he asked Lorraine. 

The daughter soberly drank in the splendor of 
the scene. Her eyes quickened in response to the 
glow with which she gazed at the picturesque hues 
of the city of Monte Carlo, that rose sheer from the 
sea to the crags of the mountains in the distance. 
Still farther to the left of the city proper, the white 
walls of the Casino, and the broad stretch of the 
promenade, shone freshly in the sun. Nearer them, 
clinging precariously to the precipitous cliffs, were 
the villas of the luxury-loving wealthy ones from all 
the world who maintained their retreats along the 
Cote d’Azure. 

Lorraine smiled at her father in transient hap¬ 
piness. Then a shadow darkened her eyes and she 
replied: 

“It’s too beautiful—how Arthur would have loved 
to see it again!” 

Mark Trevelyan grimaced sourly. There it was 
again, he complained, inwardly—never could he es¬ 
cape being reminded of Arthur. 

“Huh!” he snorted. “All that boy loves is to see 
Broadway at four in the morning.” 

Lorraine shook her head. 

“Forgive me, Dad—but you were too harsh with 
him. Arthur had a fineness much beyond anything 
on Broadway.” 


136 


After the Ball 


It was curious that both his father and sister lately 
were in the habit of speaking of Arthur as in the 
past. 

“I know it,” Trevelyan responded irascibly, as the 
goad penetrated. “I admit that I lost my temper. 
But by Heaven! his nonsense drove me beyond my¬ 
self.” 

Trevelyan’s unhappiness as he spoke turned Lor¬ 
raine from criticism to compassion. Her father’s 
lot, too, she realized, had not been a happy one for 
long-linked years. 

“Poor Dad!” she offered. “Don’t worry—he’ll 
be back with us.” 

Then the clatter of hoofs along the flinty drive 
brought them back from that night in Southern Cal¬ 
ifornia. Two barouches swung around the bend 
and stopped at the edge of the piazza. From them 
descended a gaily-chattering group. 

Leading the little throng of young people who 
approached the Trevelyans was an American of 
twenty-eight or thirty, whose unstudied attire was in 
contrast with the conspicuous uniforms of a French 
officer from Algiers and an Italian aviator, and 
whose fairly handsome, likeable face beamed with 
glad relief at finding Lorraine here. 

She held out a hand in welcome as he came nearer, 
and there was a suggestion of a corresponding 
warmth of pressure as she returned his clasp. 

“You didn’t wait for us,” he reproached her, “so 
we decided to overtake you.” 

“Blame it, like a gambler does his losses, on 
Monte Carlo’s lure,” she replied. “Dad and I 
couldn’t resist the temptation—and here we are.” 


After the Ball 


137 


Then she remembered, and turned to Trevelyan. 

“This is Tom Stevens,” she informed her father. 
“Surely you remember him? His father bought the 
quarter-acre next to ours.” 

“Of course,” Trevelyan answered, and he grasped 
the young American’s hand in recognition. “You’re 
to be our new neighbor, aren’t you? But what are 
you doing here ? I understood, as soon as your fam¬ 
ily had moved from the east, that you were to begin 
practicing law.” 

“I was—that is, I’m going to,” Stevens replied, in 
eagerness to gain Trevelyan’s approval. “You see, 
mother is wintering in Palm Beach, and the pater 
is cleaning up his affairs in New York to be ready 
to go west in the spring. That left only Europe 
for me, and now—” his eyes met with Lorraine’s— 
“I’m realizing what a fortunate chance it was.” 

As if by common wish, Lorraine and Stevens 
drifted apart from the group. Adroitly he maneu¬ 
vered her so that his bulk discreetly thwarted any 
attempts of the other young men to interrupt the 
brief tete-a-tete, and then began to tell her how lucky 
he felt himself at having found her. 

“Just think! After weeks of aimless wandering, 
to meet you—” he was saying, and then his glance 
fell upon a man who had lingered apart from the 
rest. 

Stevens’ enthusiasm dropped from his face in 
dismayed realization that temporarily, at least, he 
must forego his talk with Lorraine. 

“Excuse me just a moment,” he pleaded, “and then 
let me come back to you. This chap here has been 


138 After the Ball 

asking for Mr. Trevelyan, and I offered to find your 
father for him/’ 

Tom moved away, with an unhappy glance back¬ 
ward at the Italian aviator who had usurped him 
beside Lorraine, and led the man of whom he spoke 
to Trevelyan’s side. 

“Roulette?” Trevelyan was saying, in response to 
the question of a dowager who had annexed him, 
“there isn’t enough action to it for me. Give me a 
good stiff game of stud poker, with table stakes. 
There’s excitement for you! What’s that?” 

Tom Stevens had touched his arm. 

“From the American consul,” Tom explained, and 
introduced his companion. 

“Mr. Trevelyan? I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s 
important. May I have a word with you ?'” 

Apologizing, Mark Trevelyan allowed himself to 
be drawn away. The dowager watched after him 
with an affectation of amused tolerance. 

“Those American business men!” she exclaimed. 
“How their affairs follow them!” 

When the young man from the consul’s office had 
led Trevelyan to a detached part of the piazza, he be¬ 
gan to prepare the way for his mission with: 

“I’ve an urgent message, Mr. Trevelyan. For 
weeks we’ve been trying to find you, sir, all over 
Europe. It’s—” 

“I left strict instructions,” Trevelyan interrupted, 
“that I wasn’t to be annoyed with business mat¬ 
ters—” 

“It isn’t business, sir, or I shouldn’t have intruded 
now. Here!” 



m pl|i§ 

m 


£ 

o 

h-H 

H 

U 

£ 

Q 

O 

04 

Ph 

O 

U 

& 

w 

04 




< 

PQ 

W 

W 

H 

04 

W 

H 

Oh 

< 


cd 

~o 

cd 

£ 

o 

Cd 

X 5 

<U 

u 

G 

cd 

*"bb 

Oh 

Oh 

Cd 

^3 

G 

3 

G 

cd 

J3 



£ 

K>-> 

cd 

£ 

cd 

"O 

<u 

> 

o 

s 

s 

o 

H 


















After the Ball 


139 


The young man from the consul’s office, finding 
futility in words, had drawn from his pocket the fa¬ 
miliar oblong sheet of a cablegram. Frowningly 
Trevelyan adjusted his glasses and received the mes¬ 
sage thrust awkwardly at him. Below the cabalistic 
lettering which headed the missive he read: 

ADVISE MARK TREVELYAN DEATH OF 
SON ARTHUR IN NEW YORK DETAILS 
FOLLOWING VIA MAIL CABLE 
INSTRUCTIONS BURIAL BODY 

Trevelyan stiffened against the blow. His lips, 
under the white mustache, compressed and trembled 
a little. So quickly, he thought parenthetically, the 
problems solve themselves apart from efforts of little 
men. 

“If there is anything we can do, sir,” volunteered 
the young man from the consul’s office. Trevelyan 
nodded in abstraction. So simply, Trevelyan mused, 
had been removed in Arthur’s death necessity for 
doubts about his future. There remained only the 
ineffable wound of a remorseful memory. 

He asked eagerly for details. The consular at¬ 
tache shook his head. 

“We have had no other information,” he replied. 

Then Trevelyan remembered Gilda. 

“There has been no word of his wife, sir,” he was 
told. 

Probably, Trevelyan thought, she had played a 
principal part in the causes leading to Arthur’s 
death, and had then decamped. 

“I—I’ll give you instructions later,” Trevelyan 


140 


After the Ball 


said. The young man left. With his departure 
came surging back the torrent of mental pictures that 
had remained, like Dead Sea fruit, ever since Ar¬ 
thur’s departure from his home. Even so little 
while ago, Trevelyan recalled, he had talked with 
Lorraine about the boy. He remembered the am¬ 
bitions he had had to see his son at the head of the 
vast machinery he had built out of the oil industry. 
No need now, he told himself, to create a trusteeship 
to safeguard his fortune for his son. . . . There 

was to be no son to carry on his name .... 
No virile manhood to continue where he had 
stopped . . . Only himself, with his work done 

—and Lorraine. And she would marry, and there 
would be children* of another name, and he could 
only devise his estate to her. 

He glanced upward. In the near distance he saw 
his daughter chattering vivaciously with the young 
Italian aviator, while that man from New York who 
was moving to Los Angeles, Tom Stevens, was try¬ 
ing to get a word in edgeways. Too bad, he pon¬ 
dered, that he must blight her new-found gaiety 
with his news. But the necessity was not to be 
denied. 

Lorraine responded happily to his call and started 
toward him. Left to themselves, the Italian and 
Stevens exchanged cigarettes in an obvious effort, 
which each recognized in the other, to disregard the 
potential rivalry between them. 

Silently Trevelyan placed his arm around his 
daughter’s shoulders. The old man was summoning 
back to his assistance all the dogged resiliency which 


After the Ball 


141 


had made his place for him. If he could place the 
heaviest part of the burden on her shoulders at once 
and help her to bear it standing, he reasoned, the 
aftermath of the shock would be easier for her to 
bear. 

Still without speaking, he showed her the cable¬ 
gram. Her father’s attitude already had fore¬ 
warned her, but not of the simple completeness of the 
blow. She felt a desire to shout, to scream, anything 
to relieve the constriction in her throat, but no sound 
came. 

Then she saw mistily the figures of Stevens and 
the aviator. They were warnings that here, among 
these interlopers to her woe, she must not yield to 
her emotions. She ordered her jumping nerves to 
obedience, and succeeded in a steel-like poise. Like 
her father, she sought refuge in details. 

And again it developed that the baldness of the 
cablegram was their only source of knowledge. She 
tried to reason, to check her sense of motion, as if the 
world were dropping from under her, by reversion to 
logic. She, too, thought of Gilda, but with more 
charitable heart. 

But since the cable failed to mention her, it fol¬ 
lowed that Gilda was an unknown quantity to the 
personages who had sent the message. Therefore, 
she thought, no one who knew Arthur personally 
could have officiated in the mortuary details after 
his death. And with this the sinking sensation re¬ 
turned. 

“It hurts,” she said, managing to keep from her 
face any sign of grief that others might see, “to think 


142 


After the Ball 


that there is no one with him now—not even his 
wife—to take care of him.” 

Trevelyan, with a tenderness that he had not felt 
since Lorraine was in pigtails, tried to soften the 
sting of her thoughts. Softly, in an undertone, in 
order that the outsiders might not hear, his words 
of comfort came haltingly. Lorraine rallied. She 
nodded bravely, and a few tears came. She tossed 
her head to free them from her face, and smiled 
tremulously at him. 

“Just we two left, Dad,” she responded. 

“Just we two,” replied Trevelyan. He turned her 
gently toward the waiting carriage, and the motion 
brought her head against his shoulder. There she 
pillowed it, as he half-led, half-carried her, toward 
the barouche. 

“How odd!” commented the dowager as she 
watched the father and daughter leave. “Those im¬ 
pulsive Americans!” 

But Stevens, whose eyes had never left Lorraine, 
sensed that he had brought bad news, and uncom¬ 
prehending, was stirred with sympathy. 


CHAPTER XII 


TT IS easier, though far less assuring, to remember 
than it is to see ahead. The trite truthfulness of 
this recurred with overwhelming force to Arthur 
Trevelyan as he raised his head from his hands, and, 
seated upon the rough blanket of his cot, stared un- 
seeingly at the narrow confines of his prison cell. 

If only some clairvoyance, he wished for the 
thousandth time, had been given him by which he 
might have seen, and thereby have avoided, the con¬ 
sequences of his folly! Better yet, if only he could 
have avoided folly itself! If he had listened to ad¬ 
vice! If he had yielded to the pleas of his father— 
his sister—his wife! If, even, he only knew what 
had become of his wife—if he had even heard from 
her once since his arrest and imprisonment! 

If! If! If!—the shadows thrown across the cell 
floor by the barred gratings of the door, illuminated 
by the dim night-light in the corridor beyond, formed 
the word fantastically in the crisscross pattern. The 
design mocked at him. So much of his life had 
been predicated upon the monosyllable. 

If only the interminable years which had passed, 
years that seemed so much longer than they were in 
reality, had brought him one word from his family 
that offered hope of another chance when he had 
served his term! How eagerly this time he would 
profit by the opportunity! 


144 


After the Ball 


And then he almost relaxed into a smile at his silly 
disregard of fact. How could his family, he remem¬ 
bered, have any idea that he—a convict with only a 
prison number to call his own—was alive, when he 
had permitted his identity to be merged with that 
of the nameless one he had seen lying lifeless in the 
Park? His question, he saw, admittted of but one 
answer. 

A familiar sound echoing from the corridor broke 
insinuatingly into Arthur’s revery. He moved quietly 
to the door, and pressing his face against the bars, 
spied obliquely down the avenue of grated cubicles. 

At the far end of the corridor, moving slowly 
over his broom and dust-pan with the deliberation 
of one who knows that a task ended means merely 
another to commence, was approaching one Smooth 
Sullivan—quondam confidence man by occupation, 
more recently a convict, “trusty” by virtue of his 
approaching discharge with good-conduct allow¬ 
ance, and at present, through prison propinquity, the 
one friend in all of Arthur Trevelyan’s years whose 
friendliness was not due partly to Mark Trevelyan’s 
money. 

Arthur loitered at the cell door, in expectation of a 
muttered word or two in continuation of the his¬ 
toric narrative which he had been giving Smooth 
in nightly fragments. Smooth reached the door, 
stooped for an imaginary straw, stole a backward 
glance to make sure no guard was in sight, and then 
rested his weight, casually alert, against the door 
with a whispered greeting to Arthur. 


After the Ball 


145 


In the close-clipped, sketchy, stenographic dialect 
he had acquired in his five years of incarceration, 
Arthur resumed his narration of events at the point 
where his last installment of the serial had ended. 

“They had it on me,” he continued. “Soon as cop 
whistled for wagon I tumbled to fact I hadn’t chance 
in the world. I was caught with goods—yeggman 
outfit, gun still smelling fresh of powder, bagful of 
jewelry—everything against me.” 

Smooth nodded in sympathy. 

“Sure,” he agreed. “Many a lad’s gone to chair 
for less’n that. But why didn’t your mouthpiece 
tell ’em who you were?” 

“My lawyer?” Arthur asked. “I didn’t dare. 
Just the point. Knew I was up against it. Better let 
family think me dead than disgrace ’em again. Let 
’em all believe me just ordinary second-story man, 
give me my jolt of ten years, maybe, an’ then—” 

“S-s-s-t!” Smooth hissed the warning. Arthur 
dodged back into the obscurity of his cell and 
Smooth stole a hurried glimpse toward the corridor 
entrance. He waited, tense, for a moment. Then he 
relaxed again. 

“Thought I heard night guard,” he explained. 
“Go on—gimme the dope.” 

“Not much more. Smart cops fastened burglary 
record on me, an’ I let ’em. Knew they couldn’t pin 
murder charge on me if my lawyer argued self-de¬ 
fense. Pleaded guilty. Ten years.” 

Again Smooth nodded in acquiescence. 

“You got a sharp head, kid,” he observed. “When 
you get out we’ll form a mob and clean up.” 


146 


After the Ball 


“No, Smooth.” Arthur tried to make his refusal 
inoffensive. “I’ve got other things to do. Listen !” 

Smooth moved closer in expectation of a more en¬ 
ticing and lucrative form of piracy than he had 
known. But Arthur’s next words disillusioned him. 

“You’re going ‘outside’ soon. Long time has 
passed, but possibly you can find my wife. Help her. 
I’ll make it up, somehow.” 

Smooth brushed aside the suggestion of repay¬ 
ment for any future effort. 

“Forget dough, kid. I got plenty cached away. 
How’ll I help?” 

Eagerly Arthur told him his scant store of infor¬ 
mation of Gilda’s former haunts. 

“Maybe she’s gone back with her crowd. I tried 
to get word to her during my trial, but my lawyer 
could find no trace of her. Hunt for her, any¬ 
way—” 

“And if I don’t find her, what then?” 

“I know it’s a slim chance,” Arthur replied de¬ 
spondently. “Now I have only my sister, in Los 
Angeles. Go to her—” 

Smooth gripped Arthur’s hand as a second warn¬ 
ing. From the lower tier sounded the scuffle of the 
approaching night patrol. 

“Quick!” interrupted Smooth. “Here comes the 
flatty.” 

“Tell her that I’m alive, and here,” Arthur in¬ 
structed, “even though she must not visit me. Let 
her know I’ll reach her sometime, when I can start 
over again clean. Tell her—” 

Catlike, Smooth’s figure moved from the door. As 


After the Ball 


147 


quickly and silently, Arthur threw himself upon his 
cot and pretended pre-occupation in his thoughts. 
The night guard peered casually through the iron 
lattice of the cell. Smooth was half-way down the 
passageway. 

The next day, through the “underground” that is 
the despair of prison wardens to obliterate, Arthur 
learned that Smooth had received his discharge, the 
state’s largesse of a five-dollar note and a suit of 
black, and had passed through the Big Gate to free¬ 
dom. 


Trevelyan glanced quizzically over his glasses at 
Lorraine as she moved about the living-room. There 
was an air of poised expectancy in her motions, a 
suggestion that she was endeavoring to dissemble 
an impatience with dragging moments by her atten¬ 
tion to trifles. She was pottering aimlessly with 
unnecessary changes in the position of objects; mov¬ 
ing them from their places only to put them back 
again. This was a new phase of her in Trevelyan’s 
ken. Hitherto she had been marked always by an 
efficient economy of movement. 

The years which had passed had enriched Lorraine 
not only with a greater wealth of beauty, but with an 
unassertive charm borne of the ever-present sense of 
tragedy in Arthur’s supposed death. Behind the lam¬ 
bent softness in her eyes there was a trace of sorrow 
—the hint of an unshed tear mingling with a smile— 
a combination irresistible to the suitors who had 
come, and gone their way baffled. 


148 


After the Ball 


“Lorraine is such a sweet girl,” was the current 
comment. “But she will never marry. There’s 
something about her that holds her back.” 

Something of all this must have passed through 
Trevelyan’s mind as he watched his daughter and 
noted with what unusual care she had dressed for the 
evening. He puzzled over her, and then decided to 
approach his questioning by indirection. 

“How’s the law business progressing?” he asked. 

“ ‘Law business ?’ ” she repeated. She placed a 
sheet of music carefully on the piano and fingered at 
the keys. “You mean Tom Stevens?” 

“That’s the one. How is he doing with his prac¬ 
tice?” 

“Why—splendidly, I understand. What made 
you think of him ?” 

“Nothing in particular.” Trevelyan puffed vo¬ 
luminously at his cigar. 

Lorraine smiled. 

“How complimented Tom would be to know that 
‘nothing in particular’ reminds you of him!” 

Trevelyan choked on the fumes of the tobacco. It 
was not like Lorraine, he thought, to indulge in rep¬ 
artee with a sting to it. He was too skilled in ob¬ 
servation to fail to note that her interest in the piano 
was not entirely genuine. 

“Seen him recently?” 

“Who, Tom? Yes—a little.” Increased preoc¬ 
cupation with the keyboard. 

“You’ve known him quite a while—three, four 
years ?” 

“Five, Dad.” 


After the Ball 


149 


“Five years! What’s he waiting for ?” 

“Waiting for what, dear? I don’t understand.” 

“To ask you to marry him, of course! What’s the 
matter with him ?” 

Lorraine swung herself around on the piano bench, 
ran, and deposited herself abruptly in her father’s 
lap, with disastrous consequences to Trevelyan’s dig¬ 
nity. 

“Dad! You dear old goose! Of course he hasn’t 
asked me! Why, we’re just good friends! He’s— 
he’s—besides, he’s too busy with building up his 
practice and getting a reputation.” 

“Not too busy to see you every chance he gets. 
I’ll wager he’s the only one of the bunch who hasn’t! 
Isn’t that so ?” 

Lorraine inspected her finger-tips. 

“Well, there have been a few—but I couldn’t like 
them that way—tell me, Dad, what’s turning over in 
your mind ?” 

She grasped his chin and turned his face toward 
hers. Trevelyan tried to dissimulate, and then capit¬ 
ulated beneath her steady glance. 

“It’s this, baby girl—your father’s getting older, 
and sometimes he thinks you’re lonely, spending 
your time with him. He’s seen these young men 
come, and devote themselves to you—and then go 
away. Tell Daddy why.” 

The question was too hard for answer. How 
could she tell him that she had resolutely shut the 
doors of her heart against romance since the day 
when the two of them, with their arms around each 
other, had made of the phrase: “Just we two—to- 


150 


After the Ball 


gether,” a pledge of unity? How let him know that 
her loyalty to him was costing her the denial of the 
one love that had come into her life? 

Into her embrace, as she threw her arms around 
his shoulders and hugged him closely to her, she put 
all the fervor and warmth of her starved affections. 
But she said, lightly: 

“How could I possibly think of anyone else when 
I have you as an incomparable example ? So long as 
you want me with you, I’m satisfied to remain an old 
maid.” 

“Old maid! Bosh! You’re just an infant.” 

They laughed at the quaint concept of Lorraine as 
an elderly spinster, and their eyes twinkled. But 
Lorraine was afraid lest her own eyes reveal her 
suffering, and she directed them downward. In 
doing so her glance took in the calendar on the desk 
before them. The figures of the day, and the name 
of the month assumed an acute significance. Her 
thoughts suddenly became far away. 

Trevelyan followed her eyes and observed the de¬ 
tachment of her thought. The date to him also 
brought a meaning other than a chronological one, 
and he looked upward at Lorraine. As he did so she 
became aware that he had penetrated her thoughts, 
and their glances met. 

“You know?” she asked, in a still, hushed voice. 

Trevelyan nodded. It was as if a sudden eclipse 
had dimmed their world. 

“Just five years,” she murmured, “yet it seems 
only yesterday since Arthur was here.” 


After the Ball 


151 


“It has been a long yesterday,” he replied. He 
sank into a melancholy revery, and for once Lorraine 
did not try to bring cheer to his mood. 

“Always,” he continued, “Fve had him with me. 
Regardless of what is happening, his memory is al¬ 
ways here.” 

He tapped his glasses meditatively on the table, 
and continued: 

“I’m sorry I was always so strict with him. May¬ 
be—if I had not tried to hold so tight a rein, he 
wouldn’t have been so headstrong—wouldn’t have 
been mixed with that burglary—” 

“Dad Trevelyan!” 

Lorraine leaped to her feet, instantly dynamic, and 
swirled to face her father. 

“He wasn’t—he wasn’t. I’ll never believe he was 
guilty of that! Headstrong, yes, and foolish, too! 
But lovable, honestly so! Never a criminal! There 
was some mystery about the whole thing—something 
still to be explained—Oh! If only we had been 
nearer to have taken care of things—” 

The entrance of a maid checked her in her vehe¬ 
ment defence. Hastily Trevelyan brushed the ashes 
from his coat and resumed his reading. Lorraine 
glanced inquiringly at the servant. 

“It’s Mr. Stevens,” stated the maid. 

“Oh!” 

Trevelyan noticed that Lorraine positively flut¬ 
tered as she adjusted a shoulder-strap of her evening 
frock, touched her hair before a mirror and passed 
into the foyer to receive Tom Stevens. Not such a 
bad sign, Trevelyan mused; but an infrequent one, 


152 


After the Ball 


and something which made him entertain various 
conjectures, none of which was correct. 

“Tom Stevens, Father!” Lorraine announced in 
the doorway. The two made a pretty picture, the 
old man thought, as he glimpsed at Tom’s stalwart 
build, offset by Lorraine’s lithe daintiness. 

“How is young Blackstone working?” Trevelyan 
asked. 

“With jurisprudence, sir,” Stevens replied. 

“Tom! What an atrocious pun!” Lorraine 
chided. The two crossed the room and were at 
Trevelyan’s side. 

“I’m glad you dropped in, Tom,” Trevelyan said, 
in welcome. He affected not to be aware that Tom’s 
visit was not entirely impromptu, and continued: 

“Just in time for a little three-handed mah-jongg.” 

“Fine! That is, if—” Tom hesitated and his eyes 
signaled to Lorraine an appeal for rescue. 

“We mustn’t stay, Dad,” she responded. “There’s 
a committee that is meeting to arrange the Charity 
Ball details, and I’m dragging Tom along. I simply 
can’t do without him.” 

“Very well—leave me to my lonely old age!” 
Trevelyan pretended resignation tinged with utter 
despair. 

“Father! We won’t go.” Lorraine curled up in 
his lap again and turned to Tom. 

“Tom, get the mah-jongg tiles. We’ll stay here 
this evening.” 

“Nonsense,” exclaimed Trevelyan. “You’ll do 
nothing of the kind. Go ahead and enjoy yourselves. 
I’m quite all right” 


After the Ball 


153 


“Are you sure?” 

“Certainly. Off with you!” 

He thrust Lorraine from his knees and urged her 
toward Tom Stevens, whose face showed his relief 
at hope for an evening in which he might have Lor¬ 
raine more to himself than at a gaming table. 

But as they started toward the door Trevelyan 
called Lorraine back to his side and made her lean 
near to him while he whispered: 

“Sure you two are only good friends?” 

For her first time, Lorraine was uncomfortably 
aware of a suffused glow of embarrassment. 

“Maybe—just a little more—” she confided. 
Then she hurried away lest Trevelyan force further 
confession from her. 

In the foyer Tom Stevens had dismissed the maid 
and was holding Lorraine’s cloak for her. As he 
started to place it around her shoulders the move¬ 
ment brought his arm in tempting proximity. His 
hand trembled as he compelled himself to resist the 
lure to hold her close, close to him, and the tone of 
his voice was not entirely normal when he asked: 

“Did you mean what you said ?” 

Lorraine detected in the thickness of his words an 
impending crisis, and was warned by it. What girl 
would encourage a proposal under such unpropitious 
circumstances—with a maid in the offing, a father in 
an adjoining room, and the unromantic background 
of a foyer hall for stage scenery? Consequently it is 
not to be wondered at that she replied, evading: 

“Mean what, Tom?” 


154 


After the Ball 


For a barrister who was establishing himself as a 
skilful propounder of the law and the fact before 
judges and juries, Tom was singularly bald of 
phrases. He groped for words, and stammered: 

“What you said—about needing me ?'” 

Lorraine hesitated. She was impelled to remove 
the barriers she had erected, but could not bring her¬ 
self to the point of yielding then. It was with 
sprightly indifference, apparently, that she answered, 
deliberately mistaking his meaning: 

“Of course—I’d be bored to death if you weren’t 
with me at the meeting.” 

But if Tom found no encouragement in the vivac¬ 
ity with which she placed her hand on his arm and 
prompted him to lead her to his waiting car, Old 
Man Trevelyan, watching the byplay through the 
archway leading into the living-room, was not de¬ 
ceived. Soon, he knew, he would be more alone 
than ever. 

Just an old man whose work was over, he told 
himself. Of what use to him were his bonds, and 
his dividends, and his oil royalties? Maybe, if Ar¬ 
thur had lived .... 


CHAPTER XIII 


GOMETIMES, in escaping through one mesh in 
^ the dragnet of the law, the criminal finds himself 
caught in another snare. Three-Finger Murphy had 
always had a hunch that the peculiarities of his right 
hand would be his undoing. Not long ago he had 
been so careless as to leave an imprint of his de¬ 
formed digits on a safe with which he had been 
toying; and here he was, doing time “up the river” 
as proof that it never does to neglect the promptings 
of a hunch. 

Arthur Trevelyan, bent over the motor of an auto¬ 
mobile in the prison garage, did not look upward as 
the guard brought Murphy into the shop and as¬ 
signed the new convict to his job. Arthur had 
grown accustomed, had become saturated, in fact, 
with the prison attitude of indifference to the hap¬ 
penings in their walled-in world. A certain number 
of things were to be done, he knew, in a certain num¬ 
ber of days, for a certain number of weeks, and 
months, and years, before he would be summoned 
to the warden’s office to be discharged. 

Not so with the newcomer. Murphy accepted his 
interment philosophically, and was determined to 
see all that was to be observed, do everything to be 
done, and make the most out of anything that offered 
divertisement. 

He watched cautiously, furtively, until the guard 
had gone from the building, in accordance with the 


156 


After the Ball 


practice of the prison regime that had removed from 
the inmates the constant oppression of espionage. 

When the guard had vanished Murphy turned his 
scrutiny to Arthur, who was still plodding methodi¬ 
cally at the inner intricacies of the motor. Some¬ 
thing in his task-mate’s features stirred a hint of 
memory in Murphy’s stolid brain. He studied Ar¬ 
thur’s face while he made a pretense of polishing 
down the body of the car. That quality which Mur¬ 
phy described vaguely as “the class” was recognized 
in Arthur by the criminal’s slowly functioning men¬ 
tal cells. The same personality which had made 
Arthur well-liked in his palmy days still was com¬ 
municating its impression, even in the prison. Mur¬ 
phy was moved by it, and reacted. 

But even more than the spontaneous appreciation 
on Murphy’s part that here was someone to tie up 
with—someone whose acquaintance somehow might 
become future capital—was the insistent whispering 
in Murphy’s head that he had met Arthur under an 
unusual circumstance. 

Murphy struggled vainly to pin down the impres¬ 
sion, but it was elusive. Arthur, he was sure, never 
had been mingled with any of his mobs. It was not 
through some moll that they had conflicted. Then 
where ? How ? 

On the off-chance that his intuition was correct 
Murphy put the matter to a test. 

“Say, where’d I lamp you before?” he demanded. 

For the first time since Murphy had been brought 
into the garage Arthur glanced directly at the other. 


After the Ball 


157 


There was nothing in Murphy’s face that suggested 
a previous meeting. Arthur shook his head calmly. 

“Never, that I know of,” he replied, and resumed 
his work. 

But the brief moment of motion on Arthur’s part 
gave Murphy the strand of thought for which he was 
groping. Now he placed his vis-a-vis. Step by step, 
limping, his ideas carried him backward to his flight 
from Central Park, his loss of the precious bag of 
jewelry, the last desperate effort during his struggle 
with the stranger that had torn the bag from his 
grasp, the contest for the revolver, the body-to-body 
conflict on the ground, until— 

Then the image was fastened in his mind. He re¬ 
called vividly, now that the arduous mental effort 
had won success, the other’s face as he had last seen 
it, illuminated by the park light as its owner lay on 
his back with himself, his own face in shadow, strug¬ 
gling over him. Talk about hunches! They never 
threw you down! 

Here you go along for years trying to figure the 
low-down on why some other bimbo butts in and lets 
hisself get sent up for a job you pulled yourself, and 
all the time you nurse a yen to flag this stiff and get 
it outta him straight, see, and then he sticks up like 
a sore thumb right where you want him. 

Wouldn’t do, though, to pipe it off to this lad that 
you were in on the job yourself. Use the old head- 
piece and don’t let him get a tumble to what’s your 
line. 


158 


After the Ball 


“Listen, brother,” began Murphy, on a plane of 
easy good fellowship. “Whatta yuh in for?” 

And Arthur, not dreaming to whom he was relat¬ 
ing his history, told him. 


“Don’t you believe, Lorraine, that Charity begins 
at home?” 

Lorraine and Tom were seated before the fire in 
the Trevelyan living-room, whither the tea-wagon 
had just been wheeled. All the previous evening, 
and during their time together this afternoon, Tom 
had been trying to guide their conversation into 
more personal channels than Lorraine had wished, 
but she had carefully steered their spoken thoughts 
from the dangerous shoals of what is, after all, the 
most interesting topic: that of you, and me, and of 
ourselves. Instead, she had been full of ideas con¬ 
cerning the forthcoming Charity Ball; ideas to 
which ordinarily Tom would have given enthusiastic 
attention, had he not been engrossed in the most in¬ 
triguing idea of all. 

“At home? That’s an old saying, isn’t it? I sup¬ 
pose it’s a true one.” 

“And don’t you think,” continued Tom, eager to 
follow up his advantage, “that Charity, like Pity, is 
akin to Love ?” 

“Have a cup of tea, Tom.” 

“But don’t you agree with me?” 

He tried across the table to take her hand to em¬ 
phasize his question, but found that she had thrust 
the cup into it instead. The sudden discovery dis- 


After the Ball 


159 


turbed his carefully prepared logic and he fumbled 
at the cup nervously. Lorraine covertly was amused 
at his discomfiture, and, perhaps in unconscious con¬ 
firmation of his postulate, took pity on him. 

“Do you like lemon ?—probably they are much 
alike—or do you prefer sugar?” 

“I don’t mean that lemon and sugar are alike—I 
mean Pity, and Love.” 

She revealed the devastating batteries of her violet 
eyes for a moment, and he found himself unable to 
combat their barrage. He was in a funk. Rather 
would he have risked contempt of the most crabbed 
old judge on the bench than to carry through, but his 
objective was one which he must win at all costs. 

“What a wonderful trial lawyer you must be,” she 
teased. “You state your case so convincingly, I’m 
sure you would win any jury.” 

“You’re not a jury,” he observed darkly. “Lor¬ 
raine—” 

Again he attempted the maneuver of the out¬ 
stretched hand. 

“One of these biscuits? Forgive me—you must 
try them. The cook is wonderful!” 

To the impediment of the teacup and saucer he 
discovered himself burdened additionally with a 
plate of biscuit, and both hands occupied. He tried 
to rid himself of the encumbrances by setting the 
saucer on his knee, and balanced it there precariously 
while he gulped down the tea. It was surprisingly 
and disconcertingly hot, and the tears that came to 
his eyes were not those of self-pity, though he would 


160 


After the Ball 


have embraced his torture willingly if he could have 
known that they inspired real pity in her. 

A bite of biscuit was like ambrosial snow to his 
parched throat, and in the luxury of physical relief 
from discomfort he abandoned his argument to the 
court while one after the other, he devoured the bis¬ 
cuits. 

Lorraine was not deliberately being the coquette. 
Indeed, her flirtatious badinage was of a defensive 
measure. Now that the thunder of the pursuer was 
close upon her an instinctive panic seized her which 
would not permit her to listen to the promptings of 
her heart. Knowing that she must yield, she fought 
against accepting the inevitable. Thus automatically 
she aided Tom to defeat her, for her elusiveness 
fanned his ardor and overcame his scruples at break¬ 
ing through her reserve. 

Tom found himself suddenly clear-headed and 
purposeful. The biscuits were gone, and out of his 
way. He wondered why it had not occurred to him 
before to place the teacup and saucer upon the table. 
He did so now. There was a jingle of silverware 
and thin china as he reached across, disregarding the 
imminent peril to the tea-service, and grasped one of 
the fluttering hands. 

“Wait, Tom! You’re upsetting the creamer!” 

Tom dexterously rescued the silver pitcher as 
it was on the verge of flooding the linen, but he did 
not release his grasp. 

“Lorraine, you know I love you—!” 

Masterfully now, not to be interrupted though he 
precipitate an avalanche of creamers and tea-services, 


After the Ball 


161 


he drew her closer and leaned far over the table. 
His face showed none of its former humble diffi¬ 
dence. His eyes commanded hers. She was a dryad, 
and the pounding hoofs of Pan were close upon 
her. 

“Tom—please—the table—Tom—” 

Abruptly he freed her hand. He rose and took a 
quick stride. He shoved the tea-table to one side, 
and the wagon careened dangerously to the accom¬ 
paniment of tinkling ware. Then he placed himself 
upon the arm of her chair. He imprisoned the 
hands, held her close, leaned over her so that she 
could not escape him. 

“But I love you, Lorraine, and I’m not going to let 
that tea-wagon keep me from telling you so!” 

She was very quiet and still in the chair. Violent 
misgivings attacked him. He was on his knees. Un- 
eloquent, unstudied pleas came from his lips. 

“I love you so! I always have! Tell me you for¬ 
give me! I want you—could you be my wife? I 
can’t help all this—the tea-wagon in the road, and all 
that—” 

Still she was quiescent. Of a sudden he was 
gripped with a great fear. What had he done, he 
wondered, that had jeopardized his happiness? 

“Lorraine — ?” 

She raised her eyes; but now there was none of the 
lightnings that had awed him. Only a sublime af¬ 
fection, that spoke to him through the deep-fringed 
lashes. A heady intoxication came over him. His 
temples throbbed as he read her answer. A twinkle 


162 


After the Ball 


lurked (trust the girl to have the saving grace of 
humor!) and after what seemed eons she replied: 

“Oh, Tom, dear! That tea-wagon’s been on 
wheels all the time!” 


When he had held her in his arms long enough to 
awake to the reality of his happiness, when each had 
said and done all the immortally tender things and 
words which only lovers find sacred, when they dis¬ 
covered themselves merely strolling along a rainbow 
where just before they had been striding across uni¬ 
verses, Lorraine remembered. 

“You are making me change an idea which has 
been very firmly fixed in my mind,” she told him. 

“Have you just decided that possibly you can love 
me a little ?” he asked. 

“Foolish one! I’ve always loved you—at least, 
nearly always. It’s something else.” 

He waited, while she paused, for her to continue. 

“You never met my brother, did you?” she asked 
after a brief silence. 

“No,” Tom replied, “but I’ve often heard of him. 
He left just before we came west, I seem to remem¬ 
ber. Married, didn’t he ?” 

“Yes, he married. Then—he died.” 

“Dear girl!” He kissed her gently in sympathy. 

“His death left Dad with just myself. We said 
we would be together always. I thought at the 
time I could help take Arthur’s place with him, but 
lately I’ve known that I can’t. I wonder if you—” 

“Anything in the world you wish! You know 
you have only to ask.” 



AFTER THE BALL A RENCO PRODUCTION 

“Have you just decided that possibly you can love me 
a little?” Tom asked. 




A 









After the Ball 163 

“Do you really mean that, Tom? Would you do 
anything, just because I asked it?” 

“You know I would! Try me, and see.” 

“This isn’t very much—but do you suppose we 
might have Father with us for a while? I’m sure 
it would help make him happy again to have a young 
man near him. Only, today, he had something on 
his mind—” 

And then she realized that she was about to betray 
to Tom the fact that others beside himself had not 
been entirely unaware of his love for her, and to 
hide her confusion she buried her face against the 
cool stiffness of his collar, and Tom was too busy 
enjoying the sensation to notice the hiatus in her 
words. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A LL the day, so drearily like every other prison 
■ day, Arthur had labored at his task in the ga¬ 
rage, taking infinite efforts with minor adjustments 
which might have been dismissed in an hour. But 
the narcotic effect of unthinking concentration upon 
unessentials that made the body an automaton and 
the mind a blank was his only salvation. Without 
these things, he thought when he dared risk the dis¬ 
sipation of thinking, he would have raved under a 
disintegration of nerves. 

But he had seen what had happened to others who 
had broken; had seen them dragged, writhing, kick¬ 
ing, screaming, to unknown horrors; had heard hints 
of places where unfortunates were kept in “solitary.” 
He could keep from breaking to that extent, he 
knew. The years that had gone by—the years that 
were still to be endured—God! Could he stick it 
out? 

Working, desperately intent upon nothing, he had 
paid scant attention to the grey-garbed figure who 
was beside him. Since Smooth Sullivan, his only 
friend in the big prison since his commitment, had 
been discharged, Arthur had found little of interest 
in his fellow-inmates. One man was so like another; 
either a self-illusioned victim of misfortune who had 
a story of having been convicted for a crime not 
committed, or a hardened criminal awaiting only 


After the Ball 


165 


his chance to repeat a trick, the next time sure of 
escaping the consequences by being a little more 
clever. 

If Arthur, though, was too saturated with the ano¬ 
dyne of habit to find interest in Three-Finger Mur¬ 
phy, Murphy, still keenly alive to his predicament, 
was very aware of the stroke of fortune that had 
thrown him with Arthur. In Arthur’s narrative of 
the events that had placed him in prison, Murphy had 
gleaned a hint here and there that Arthur’s connec¬ 
tions might prove profitable in some way yet unde¬ 
fined. Here, Murphy reasoned, was at once a chance 
to lay a foundation for that profit, and at the same 
time pave the way for the more immediate project he 
had in mind. 

It had taken no little mental effort to reach this 
conclusion, but with the decision reached, Murphy 
acted upon it with the direct simplicity which had 
made him among the foremost of his profession. 

His glance of precaution to make sure that no 
guard was in hearing was one of habit. Then he 
leaned forward to Arthur and whispered his invita¬ 
tion. 

“Getaway? Escape from here? No chance!” 
Arthur replied incredulously. 

The. opposition stirred Murphy to flights of con¬ 
vincing eloquence. He rehearsed verbally each step 
in the plan which he had been sketching ever since a 
deputy sheriff had turned him over to the warden. 

As Arthur listened, some long dormant ambition 
turned over lazily in his brain and stretched itself to 
wakefulness. His eyes became keen with interest in 


166 


After the Ball 


Murphy’s scheme. Eagerly he questioned, raising 
surface objections for the satisfaction of having them 
satisfied by Murphy’s answers. 

At length Arthur nodded in agreement with Mur¬ 
phy’s contention that the proposal was a feasible one. 
Murphy paused, then put the issue to the test. 

“Whadda yuh say?” he demanded. 

“I’ll do it!” Arthur declared. “Anything rather 
than this—even if it kills me!” 

He felt a glow of relief at having crossed his Rubi¬ 
con. There was a satisfying knowledge that again 
he was able to gamble with his fate—to be able to 
guide a course of his own volition, even if the game 
were to be of brief duration, with a guard’s bullet 
taking the final trick. 

True to his promise, Smooth Sullivan’s first activ¬ 
ity after having retrieved his emergency bankroll 
from a safe deposit box and having attired himself 
in raiment that more gladly expressed his soul, was 
to gather up the severed threads of Gilda’s trail as 
Arthur had given them. 

The glow of virtue which warmed him in con¬ 
sciousness of being a square-shooter and sticking to 
his word was reflected in the splendor of his apparel. 
The discreet shepherd’s plaid of his suit established 
a themal treatment which was elaborated in the 
gray of his suede shoes and the sheerness of his silk 
shirt, of the same hue; a bit of contrasting color was 
furnished in the scarlet of his tie, which in turn was 
modified by the somber sheen of the black pearl that 
was his only jewelry. 


After the Ball 


167 


Smooth had spent much time in achieving this ef¬ 
fect, but the results, as he felt the stares of passers-by 
whom he encountered on the shabby city side street, 
repaid him for his labor. 

Smooth, as he strolled leisurely along the sidewalk 
and picked his way among the groups of juvenile hu¬ 
manity at play, glanced frequently at the numbers 
over the doors of the houses that stretched, monot¬ 
onously alike in the brownstone uniformity ahead. 
He was in a block solid with rooming-houses and 
boarding-places; places that once had been digni¬ 
fied with private ownership and residence until 
changing progress had turned them into humbler 
usage. 

He glanced speculatively at one number painted 
on the fanlight above a forbidding doorway. This 
was it, he remembered; it was the address given 
him at the hospital where, he had discovered, Gilda 
had been taken. He hesitated while he sought to 
improve the perfection of his appearance by 
straightening a lapel, then ascended the narrow, 
footworn “stoop,” and pressed the door-bell. A 
jingle echoed dismally from the cavernous depths 
of the interior. 

His meditation of the luster of his finger-nails 
was interrupted by the appearance of a gaunt wo¬ 
man, slightly redolent of last night’s boiled dinner, 
who stood in the scant opening between the door and 
jamb. Against the bottom of the door she held a 
precautionary foot. 

Smooth’s suave inquiry failed to remove her atti¬ 
tude of suspicion and guard against a world of 


168 


After the Ball 


chicanery. Her chill demeanor increased as she sur¬ 
veyed Smooth’s attire and resented its shrieking 
affluence. She shook her head with finality. 

“No such person here,” she announced, and 
started to close the door. 

But Smooth, with a deftness inherited from the 
days when he had served an apprenticeship at hood¬ 
winking the gullible by selling de luxe editions, 
deftly slipped his foot against the bottom of the 
door, wedging it fast. He smiled ingratiatingly, 
and asked: 

“Do you remember if you ever had a—a guest 
of that name?” 

All her life the woman had rebelled inwardly at 
being known as a landlady, and had longed to be 
considered, instead, a hostess. The word “guest,” 
with its glamour of Sunday society columns, did the 
trick, and she relented slightly. 

“She was here,” the woman began, and then re¬ 
membering, added tartly, “but she left owin’ me 
$13.65. I’m holdin’ her baggage, what there is of 
it.” 

Smooth’s expression of sympathy implied a world 
of appreciation of the tribulations which a hostess 
for hire must bear, and he reached into his pocket. 
With a gesture as if apologizing for intruding 
such a mercenary matter into their amenities, he 
produced a roll of bills, carelessly allowing the de¬ 
nomination of the uppermost, a $50 note, to be 
visible. 

“That’s a mere trifle,” he observed jocularly. 


After the Ball 169 

“You’ll let me have her belongings—and pay the 
bill?” 

The landlady pondered. Rarely did she ever have 
an opportunity to recoup on an overdue lodgings 
account. 

“Well, it ain’t regular—” 

Smooth toyed seductively with the roll. 

“But I suppose it’s all right.” The landlady capit¬ 
ulated, and held out her hand. Smooth shook his 
head in smiling reproof, and motioned in the general 
direction, of the interior. 

“Cash on delivery,” he quoted. 

The woman bit her lips at the rebuff to her greed¬ 
iness. She turned to go for Gilda’s belongings, but 
before she closed the door, Smooth noticed, she re¬ 
placed in position the heavy chain which allowed 
the door to be opened again for only a scant few 
inches. 

When she had departed Smooth hugged his bank¬ 
roll close to his belt line and carefully, so that no 
chance wind might blow it away, peeled off the fifty- 
dollar bill. He ran through the remaining notes with 
meticulous care. The roll of such ample propor¬ 
tions, with its appearance of wealth induced by 
the outside wrapper, now was disclosed as being a 
sheaf of one-dollar bills; but Smooth long ago had 
learned the value of a “flash.” 

He had just counted out the fourteen one-dollar 
notes when the door reopened and the woman 
stood with a battered suitcase in one hand. She did 
not release her grasp on it until Smooth had de¬ 
posited the bills in her other hand. 


170 


After the Ball 


“I dunno’s I’ve got the change,” she demurred. 

“Oh, my dear Madam! Please keep the change, 
for your trouble!” 

Smooth brushed aside such minor matters with 
an airy wave of his hand. Debonairly he swung 
toward the pavement, swinging the suitcase, whose 
lightness revealed the meagerness of its contents, as 
he walked briskly away. After him watched the 
landlady. She dubiously inspected each bank-note, 
almost regretting that they were not silver, that 
she might test them with her teeth. Dourly she ac¬ 
cepted their genuineness, and observed: 

“Much good it’ll do him—that bunch of old 
junk!” 


Whatever it was, however, which Smooth found 
in the suitcase, was of sufficient importance to cause 
him to be the last, that afternoon, to hurry through 
the gates of the Grand Central Station and board 
the Twentieth Century just as that Chicago-bound 
train started to pull out. Smooth had timed his 
departure to the minute, in the hope that any Cen¬ 
tral Office detective (and he knew that detectives 
often, and usually did, manage to spot Sing-Sing 
graduates) who might have been shadowing him, 
would have been thrown off by the ruse. 

Similarly at Chicago it was by devious strategy 
that Smooth boarded another train, this time a trans¬ 
continental one, for the three-day run to Los An¬ 
geles. He knew that from one Headquarters to an¬ 
other, from city to city, word was passed of the 


After the Ball 


171 


migrations of the titular enemies of society; and 
Smooth prided himself on being a sufficiently prom¬ 
inent figure in the realm of get-rich-quick work¬ 
ers to warrant police attention to him. 

It would never do, he realized, with some plain¬ 
clothes “flatty” probably following him, to go openly 
in Los Angeles to the Trevelyan home. Conse¬ 
quently in that city it was from a public pay-sta¬ 
tion downtown that he called the private telephone 
number Arthur had given to him, and waited in 
some misgiving. 

Lorraine Trevelyan glanced upward from her 
desk as her maid summoned her to the phone. 

“He said his name didn’t matter, Miss Lorraine,” 
the maid informed her. “He said it was personal.” 

“But who can it be, who knows this number?” 
Lorraine wondered. 

“It’s probably one of them decorators, Miss,” the 
maid speculated. 

Then Lorraine remembered that she had given 
the private number to the foreman of the men who 
were preparing the armory hall for the Charity 
Ball. She lifted the receiver to her ear. 

Smooth’s soft voice, with its purr of New York- 
ese sounding faintly sinister, came in response to her 
answer. 

“This Miss Trevelyan?” 

Lorraine acknowledged the identity. 

“Miss Lorraine Trevelyan?” 

“Of course—what is it, please?” 

But Smooth wished first to be sure of his 
ground. 


172 


After the Ball 


“Was you the sister of a lad with a monniker of 
Arthur Trevelyan ?” 

Lorraine gasped sharply at the mention of Ar¬ 
thur’s name. There was a foreboding strangeness 
in this call, coming from an unknown speaker 
somewhere at the other end of the wire. 

“Yes! I am—I was his sister—what is it ?” 

Smooth sensed the drama in what he was about 
to say. He leaned closer to the phone transmitter, 
subconsciously trying to impress his hearer at the 
other end with the importance of his role. 

“Well, say!” he began. Abruptly he became 
aware of the delicacy of his mission, and he felt his 
clumsiness. “Listen! I’m a friend of his, see—he’s 
a nice fellow—” 

“Please!” Lorraine interrupted. “Oh, please! 
What about my brother ? Who are you ?” 

Smooth was growing aware that he was blunder¬ 
ing. He gulped, and then took the plunge. 

“Well — I’m from Arthur!” 

“Oh!” 

Smooth heard the half-stunned, half-frightened 
exclamation echo over the wire. Lorraine could not 
believe what she had heard. It was like some grisly 
jest—some heartless prank suggestive of the cheap 
theatrics of a medium in a spiritualistic seance, with 
its claptrap of messages from the dead. Yet her 
very incredulity prompted her to volley questions 
at the unseen one separated from her by the tele¬ 
phone. 

“Tell me! Where is he? How is he? Oh, it 
can’t be true! Who are you ? Tell me about him!” 


After the Ball 


173 


“Wait, lady, wait! Shoot ’em one at a time!” 
Smooth implored. Her queries were too many for 
him to master, and he concentrated upon the first 
one. 

“Why, he’s—” 

A shadow moved across the glass window-pane of 
the telephone booth and flickered in his eye. He 
checked his words and glanced cautiously outward. 
Beyond his full range of vision, he could see only 
the lower part of the man whose motion had 
thrown the shadow. His eyes noted the nonde¬ 
script trousering, and then his glance halted, fasci¬ 
nated, at the man’s shoes. They were blunt and 
heavy-soled, with square toes and the appearance 
of having carried their wearer over many miles of 
hard pavement. Smooth knew what those shoes 
meant; and correctly or otherwise, he assumed that 
the presence of the detective wearing them had 
something to do with him. 

Abrupt caution overcame him. He lowered his 
voice as he continued: 

“Listen, lady! I can’t talk more now, see? 
Where’ll you let me meet you, downtown?” 

All eagerness now, discretion forgotten, Lorraine 
replied: 

“Anywhere! When?” 

Smooth chose the most crowded, conspicuous 
place he knew, conscious that in numbers lay com¬ 
parative safety. 

“How’s the Toreador, in the lobby—at two-thirty, 
strike you?” 


174 


After the Ball 


The name of the newest and most elaborate of the 
city’s hotels “struck” Lorraine as satisfactorily as 
if he had mentioned the Elysian Fields, so great was 
her anxiety to hear more of Arthur from this mys¬ 
terious caller. She assented impatiently. 

“But how will I know you?” it occurred to her to 
ask. 

This was a problem that Smooth had solved be¬ 
fore under more intriguing, though less serious, cir¬ 
cumstances. 

“I’ll be wearin’ a white carnation. When you see 
me, give me a high sign, see?” 

Lorraine saw, though she was a little doubtful of 
being able to deliver a high sign. She repeated his 
words: “The Toreador—two-thirty!” and let the 
receiver fall upon the hook as she sank back in her 
chair, shaken and trembling. 

Smooth started to turn from the instrument, 
when he remembered the square-toed shoes. With 
elaborate carelessness he felt in his pockets for a 
coin, dropped it in the box, and asked for another 
number. When he heard the buzzing which signi¬ 
fied that the line was “busy” he smiled with satis¬ 
faction and retrieved his nickel. Then he sauntered 
past the square-toed shoes without glancing at their 
wearer. 

On the sidewalk outside, however, Smooth 
turned just in time to see the detective enter the 
booth from which Smooth had just emerged. 
Smooth grinned. 

“He’ll be askin’ Central for the last number called 
on the line,” he surmised. “When she tells him, he’ll 


After the Ball 175 

be doin' some fancy guessin’ why I wanted to talk 
with the Zoo!” 

It was with no such amused composure, how¬ 
ever, that Lorraine, in her room, tried to run over 
mentally what the conversation with Smooth might 
signify. Only the rendezvous—“The Toreador— 
two-thirty!”—was clearly fixed in her tumultuous 
thoughts. What could it all mean? From what 
point in the cosmic ether had come this cryptic mes¬ 
sage from her brother? Could Arthur really be 
alive? Where was he—? 

Then, with “The Toreador—two-thirty!” ring¬ 
ing in her ears, she found relief in tears. 


CHAPTER XV 


S MOOTH breezed across the broad granite treads 
of the entrance to the Toreador and jauntily 
entered the lobby. 

He was confident that he had thrown off the en¬ 
cumbrance of the detective who had been following 
him. By a rapid series of operations that included 
a quick change from one street-car to another, a 
doubling back on his trail, an ascent in an office 
building elevator to an upper floor, a fortunate en¬ 
trance of a descending car, and a hasty exit from a 
side corridor of the building, he was sure that he 
had eluded his “shadow.” 

He strolled leisurely across the lobby, serene in 
the confidence inspired by the warm brown and gray 
tones of his rough Scotch tweed, resplendent in 
which reposed a white carnation. As he passed 
through the clusters of men and women thronging 
the gathering-place he was on the alert for a con¬ 
spicuous position where he might observe the pas¬ 
sers-by, and where, when she arrived, Lorraine 
Trevelyan might observe him and his carnation. 

He chose a mottled pillar toward the rear of the 
lobby, into whose white-streaked greens and blacks 
his costume blended nicely, and rested himself 
against it. His air was one of perfect poise and 
nonchalance. 

Lorraine entered the lobby. The sudden change 


After the Ball 


177 


from the outside glare of the sun to its subdued 
lighting confused her, and for a moment she paused, 
silhouetted against the doorway. She was all eager¬ 
ness to find this man of the white carnation who 
had promised to give her word of her brother, and 
the significance of the flower she was to identify 
him by was her only clearly defined thought. She 
was aware of a blur of faces and she glanced un¬ 
certainly around. 

Then, holding herself back to keep from breaking 
into a nervous run, she passed toward the hotel 
desk at the rear of the lobby. Her glance shifted 
momentarily from one man to another. The women 
she failed to notice. 

Abruptly she found herself facing, last in the 
world whom she would have chosen to meet, three 
women with whom she was on terms of a surface 
friendship. One of these specially, a Mrs. Renshew, 
had been known even before her recent marriage 
for her acidulous tongue; now, with the greater free¬ 
dom of matrimony, the sting of her innuendos was a 
byword. With her was Gertie Abercrombie, who 
clung still to the ingenuous outlook of her debutante 
year an uncertain number of seasons ago, and whose 
honeyed sweetness of tongue successfully failed to 
mask the venom behind her words. The third, Ruth 
Fitch, was of negligible quantity. 

Lorraine suffered their kisses. Then— 

“My dear!” gushed Miss Abercrombie, “so glad 
we’ve run into you! I’m just dying to hear all 
about your romance with Mr. Stevens! And I know 
you’re so happy!” 


178 


After the Ball 


Lorraine admitted her happiness, though in her 
abstraction there was a casual note in her accep¬ 
tance of their congratulations that did not pass 
without notice. Mrs. Renshew and Miss Aber- 
.crombie exchanged glances, and Mrs. Renshew of¬ 
fered : 

“You’re just in time to join us. We dropped in 
for a bit of tea.” 

The invitation was doubly unwelcome, both from 
its source and because of its interruption of her plans. 
Lorraine vaguely heard herself murmuring apolo¬ 
gies and pleading an engagement. 

“We mustn’t interfere with dear Lorraine,” Miss 
Abercrombie reminded Mrs. Renshew. “She’s so 
happy —and Mr. Stevens probably is waiting—such 
an ideal match—” 

As Gertie Abercrombie’s voice dwindled uncer¬ 
tainly away, Lorraine managed to find a means of 
leaving them. Her cheeks were burning. She was 
aware that the incident had been an awkward one, 
and that her part in it had been ill-done. But it 
didn’t matter, she told herself, in comparison with 
the importance of learning about her brother. 

Meanwhile Smooth, loitering against the pillar 
and wondering whether the peach who had met the 
three janes was Arthur Trevelyan’s sister, grew 
conscious of a prickling feeling along the back of his 
neck. He was being watched. The sixth sense 
which he had developed as a kid with the alley gang 
sounded an imperative warning. 

Carefully he allowed his eyes to wander to one 
side and come to rest, with an unguarded flickering 


After the Ball 


179 


of his eyelids, upon an individual leaning against 
the hotel desk. The latter’s attire was unmistakable, 
from derby hat and salt and pepper suit, to heavy 
shoes. Smooth was certain that this was the hotel 
detective. He ran over his mental card index and 
recalled having met the detective officially several 
years ago, when he was in a jam—recalled, too, 
that the detective undoubtedly remembered him. 

The pleasure that Smooth found in his heather- 
mixture costume suddenly went, and he was cold. 
He affected concern in his necktie, and out of the 
corner of his eye saw that the hotel detective still 
was stabbing him with his gaze. 

Smooth shifted his weight from one foot to the 
other. The motion swung him slightly around the 
pillar. He slid his foot further to one side, and then 
by imperceptible degrees followed it with the other. 
Between his shoulder-blades he could feel the com¬ 
forting presence of the pillar, which he was trying to 
interpose between himself and the baleful stare of 
the detective. 

He shifted his feet again. To an uninitiated ob¬ 
server he would have seemed merely an individual 
whose feet were tired, and who was seeking only to 
ease them by changing their position. But inch by 
inch he continued to maneuver until he was sure 
the pillar now blocked the detective’s view. 

Immediately he scampered down the corridor 
and around a corner. There he stopped, and sank 
into a chair, relieved. 

There Lorraine found him. The white carnation 
loomed gigantically before her, like a beacon to a 


180 


After the Ball 


distressed mariner, and she walked toward Smooth 
for a few paces in anxiety to confirm her thought 
that this was the man she was seeking. 

Then fears overcame her. She realized that for 
the first time in her life she was about to hold con¬ 
versation with a man under unconventional circum¬ 
stances. While this in itself would not have dis¬ 
mayed her, she was beset with the additional pos¬ 
sibility that more than one man might chance to 
be wearing a white carnation. It was such a slender 
clew. 

Smooth looked upward, and saw the peach who 
had met the three janes. She seemed like the kind 
of a girl Arthur Trevelyan would have for a sister. 
His fingers caressed the blossom in his lapel sug¬ 
gestively. 

The signal convinced Lorraine. She nerved her¬ 
self to take the chance, and nodding, smiled at 
Smooth. Instantly he was on his feet, all gallantry, 
and bowed. Yet he warned himself to be careful. 
He knew of such creatures as “flirt cops,” and she 
might be one of these. He groped for an assurance. 

“It’s a pleasure, Miss—Miss—” 

He waited for her to supply the identifying name. 

“Miss Trevelyan,” Lorraine returned. Then, for 
her own conviction: 

“And you’re from?” 

“From your brother, Arthur,” Smooth replied. 

Lorraine’s face gladdened, and her eyes became 
radiant. She clasped her hands together impulsive¬ 
ly. She might have been a school-girl delighted 
with an invitation to her first party. 


After the Ball 


181 


“Then he’s truly alive— alive?” 

Her voice, almost in hysteria, rose at the news 
that seemed too good to be true. She moved a step 
nearer to him and looked up into his face, in an 
ecstasy of suspense for his next words. 

Smooth shook his head slightly in warning lest she 
attract attention by her emotion. Here was a jane, 
he told himself, who might go off her nut if he did 
not temper his phrases and hold her to earth. 

“Sure he’s alive,” he reassured her. “He’s the 
livest guy you ever knew.” 

“It’s too wonderful! It’s glorious! I—I love 
you for telling me!” 

With a heart overflowing in gratitude, Lorraine 
seized his hand and pressed it between hers. Smooth 
tugged to release his imprisoned member. 

“Aw—say!” he protested in embarrassment. 

At this moment Mrs. Renshew, in the tea-room 
beyond the corridor, turned her attention from the 
slice of lemon she was squeezing into her cup to 
stare, entranced, at the spectacle visible through an 
archway. She concentrated on the sight for a mo¬ 
ment and then generously invited her companions 
to enjoy the sensation with her. 

As if rehearsed, the three women held their gaze 
steadily upon the distant vista of Lorraine and 
Smooth at the instant when she was clasping his 
hand. Then their heads turned, and they glanced 
each from one to the other. 

Mrs. Renshew was the first to speak. 

“I knew she came here to meet a man—I could tell 
it from her manner.” 


182 


After the Ball 


She accented her observation with a last emphatic 
pressure upon the lemon. 

“And her engagement just announced,” added 
Ruth Fitch. She pursed her lips in disapproval— 
possibly in reaction to the tartness of Mrs. Ren- 
shew’s lemon. 

Gertie Abercrombie smiled sweetly. She was 
busily engaged with biscuit and marmalade. 

“Such a quaint character—” another dab of 
marmalade—“probably one of her settlement work¬ 
ers—”a tentative tasting of the biscuit—“or one of 
Mr. Stevens’ friends—” 

Mrs. Renshew’s laughter tinkled like thin glass¬ 
ware. 

“Oh, Gertie—you do say the funniest things!” 

“But you don’t suppose—” Gertie’s voice came in 
a hushed undertone of sudden shock—“that she 
would come here to meet another man?” 

“H-m-m-m,” Mrs. Renshew sniffed. “Still 
waters run deep, you know.” 

“Look!” 

It was Ruth Fitch who exclaimed. The synchro¬ 
nized heads of the three musketeers of scandal turned 
again toward Lorraine and Smooth Sullivan, stand¬ 
ing close together for all the world like two at a 
trysting place. 

“Quick—please, oh, please, tell me all about him!” 

Lorraine was pleading this, oblivious to all the 
universe except of her own anxieties. Smooth was 
becoming increasingly fearful that Lorraine, when 
she learned all he had to tell her, might prove un¬ 
equal to the strain and precipitate a scene. He 


After the Ball 183 

looked uneasily around. The hotel detective was 
not in sight. 

“Listen, lady,” Smooth suggested. “I can’t tell 
you the whole works now—besides, I got some stuff 
I want you to lamp.” 

Under his breath, in jerky, half-completed sen¬ 
tences, he told Lorraine to meet him in one of the 
public drawing-rooms on the mezzanine floor. 

“I’ll blow on up,” he informed her. “You trail 
along in a minute, see ?” 

Lorraine nodded. To the Tea Triumvirate a pal¬ 
pable assignation had been arranged. Before their 
scandalized and hungry eyes Smooth was seen to 
leave Lorraine and pass toward the entrance to the 
elevators, a short distance down the corridor. When 
his form had vanished in an upward car, Lorraine, 
unconscious of subterfuge, followed soon after in 
another. 

There was a gasp at the tea-table when the dis¬ 
torted significance of Smooth’s tactics became ap¬ 
parent. 

“Of all things!” This from Ruth Fitch. “I 
never saw anything so bold!” 

“But, maybe,” Gertie Abercrombie interposed in 
treacle tones, “maybe she’s gone upstairs to visit a 
girl friend.” 

Her meaning smile belied her words, and Mrs. 
Renshew found her cue. 

“Right after him ? Oh, my dear!” 

Gertie was in haste to leave no room for misun¬ 
derstanding of her policy of speaking no evil. 


184 


After the Ball 


“I didn’t say she was going to meet a girl,” she 
corrected. “I said maybe —” 

“Oh!” Ruth Fitch shrugged her shoulders. “Well, 
maybe—” 

In the drawing-room upstairs Smooth was pacing 
the floor impatiently as Lorraine entered. She ran 
toward him, and he led her to a secluded corner of 
the room, where, upon a divan, reposed the battered 
suitcase which he had brought across the continent. 

“Now you sit here,” began Smooth, “and I’ll 
give you the low-down on the whole lay-out.” 

“Only tell me about Arthur,” she implored, as 
Smooth placed himself beside her and rested his 
hands upon his knees. “Tell me all about him. 
Where is he ? Why has he sent you, instead of com¬ 
ing to me directly?” 

“Well, you see—” 

How to tell this swell jane that her brother was 
doing time ? 

“It’s like this.” Smooth started anew. “There’s a 
reason why—you don’t mind my tellin’ you, do 
you?” 

His reticence was a presage of ill news. Lorraine 
sensed this and her heart sank. But she drove for¬ 
ward to meet what must be faced. 

“Tell me—tell me! It doesn’t matter whether I 
mind. Tell me about him!” 

“He’s in prison.” 

The bald statement of fact came like a caroling 
chorus, instead of being fraught with the dread sig¬ 
nificance which Smooth had feared. Thus Lorraine 
learned again how much smaller are the realities of 


After the Ball 185 

misfortune than the chimeras which the imagination 
pictures. 

“Prison! Then I can go to him?” 

It was more exclamation than question, but 
Smooth was quick to head off this new idea. 

“That wouldn’t ever do! You mustn’t go near 
him—take it from me!” 

“But why?” Lorraine already had visioned her¬ 
self in reunion with Arthur, even in the chill atmos¬ 
phere of the penitentiary. “Why can’t I see him? 
Don’t they allow visitors ?” 

“They allow ’em all right. It ain’t that. But Ar¬ 
thur told me particular to make you lay off.” 

“I don’t understand.” Her hand wavered in the 
air to express her confusion. 

“No more could I, until he doped it out for for me. 
Then I got his angle. This brother of yours is a 
good kid—” 

“I know—I know he is,” she interrupted. 

“None better. He got himself in a jam that 
wasn’t his fault. It was all against him, and he was 
wise to the idea that it didn’t do any good to squeal. 
So he took his medicine like a man.” 

Out of Sullivan’s rambling mixture of jargon and 
words which conveyed a meaning to her, Lorraine 
gathered only that Arthur had been imprisoned for 
an offense which he had not committed. 

“But why didn’t he let us know—let us help him?” 
she wondered. 

“That’s what I’m tellin’ you,” Smooth argued. 
“This kid ain’t like me, see? If I lose, I do my trick 
in the pen, an’ there’s no harm done. But Arthur’s 


186 


After the Ball 


different. He dopes it out, he tells me, that his old 
man has helped him too much as it is, an’ he ain’t 
goin’ to yell for more from pa. I get his drift an’ 
here’s how I size up his play—that so long as every¬ 
body’s got him figured for a dead one, he’ll let it go 
that way an’ do time under this other bird’s name. 
Then when he’s discharged, he figures, he’ll get busy, 
make a man of hisself, an’ then come around for the 
glad hand from his folks.” 

Smooth thrust his fingers through his hair to re¬ 
lieve the strain ensuing from his long explanation. 
But still one thing Lorraine could not understand. 

“But now that I know about him,” she contested, 
“why shouldn’t I explain it all to father, then go to 
Arthur, make him a little happier while he is in pris¬ 
on, and work to get him out ? Surely, if I can prove 
that an innocent man is being imprisoned—” 

“That’s just the point,” Smooth interjected. “Ac¬ 
cordin’ to what Arthur tells me, an’ from what I 
gather, that’s just what you can't do—prove him in¬ 
nocent. It’s an open an’ shut case against him. 
That’s why he talks about not wantin’ to bring addi¬ 
tional disgrace on his folks—lettin’ everybody know 
that he’s a jailbird.” 

“As if we cared!” she scoffed. 

“Yeh, but he cares. Listen, Miss Trevelyan! The 
boy’s got the right idea. If you people, with your 
old man’s—excuse me, lady—with Mr. Trevelyan’s 
dough, get busy an’ work wires, an’ get the boy out, 
he’ll be right back where he was, dependin’ on his pa. 
The way he’s got it framed, he’s goin’ to be out on 


After the Ball 187 

his own, an’ if he makes good he’s that much more 
sure of hisself. See?” 

Lorraine saw. She saw the tremendous change, 
the overwhelming transition through which her 
brother had gone to bring him to this point of view. 
She caught herself almost being thankful for the for¬ 
tune which had brought Arthur to a prison cell to 
work this miracle of manhood in him. Hot tears of 
mingled happiness and regret for the necessity of 
such a drastic cure began to make lines of moisture 
on her eyelids. 

Then the thought of the cell, and what imprison¬ 
ment must mean to Arthur’s carefree, effervescent 
spirit, drove away the happiness. 

“To think, though, that he’s in prison! Oh, I 
don’t mean the disgrace he thinks about —we know 
that he’s not bad—but the years of confinement! 
Nothing could be worth that torture to him!” 

Smooth struggled to express the rude philosophy 
to whose glimmering precepts he had clung. 

“Lemme tell you,” he groped, “I know you think 
I’m a crook—” 

“Oh, no!” she protested. “At least, not a bad 
crook.” 

“Yes, I am,” he insisted. “I don’t kid myself that 
I’m one of these victims of misfortune. When I gyp 
some bird outta his dough, an’ get pinched, I ain’t 
got a kick cornin’. 

“An’ I’m on the level, too. I never got a dime 
selling’ phoney stock to widows an’ orphans. My 
meat’s the man with larceny in his heart hisself—the 
penny-inchin’ tightwad that’s tryin’ to get somethin’ 


188 


After the Ball 


for nothin’. All I do is make him think he’s goin’ 
to put somethin’ over either on me or somebody else, 
an’ then I take him. 

“An’ that’s fifty-fifty, see? That’s fair enough. 
An’ that’s what I’m gettin’ at about your brother. I 
don’t know much about religion, but a fellow does a 
lot of thinkin’ when he’s in the pen, an’ I got a 
hunch that fifty-fifty is the whole scheme of—of— 
well, of everythin’. We all gotta give an’ take.” 

Out of his welter of words Lorraine gathered 
Smooth’s firm though intangible belief in compensa¬ 
tion—retribution. 

“Say that Arthur’s innocent,” Smooth continued. 
“We know he wasn’t mixed up in that diamon’ clean¬ 
up. Say he’s gettin’ a tough deal for somethin’ that 
wasn’t his fault. But he had a lot of soft livin’ that 
he didn’t earn, an’ he got away with murder while 
your pa was good to him. Now he’s got to make up 
for it. That’s where the fifty-fifty comes in. 

“You can’t beat the game, Miss Trevelyan. For a 
long time the breaks in the play came his way. He’s 
got to stick it out durin’ his losing streak, an’ then 
he’ll be even with the game again. See ? See ? Be¬ 
lieve me, he’ll be better off for it.” 

Lorraine was silent with her thoughts. It was an 
amazing thing, she considered, that this uncouth 
sharpster should have brought home so vividly the 
old truth which she had forgotten: “As ye sow, so 
shall ye reap.” The whirlwind which Arthur was 
reaping was only justice—the working of an inexor¬ 
able law. 

A sense of resignation, of faith in the ultimate 


After the Ball 


189 


benefit embodied in her brother’s ordeal, came over 
her. She was strengthened by a sureness that Ar¬ 
thur, just as “a fellow does a lot of thinkin’ when 
he’s in the pen,” had found himself. It was a con¬ 
solation, bittersweet, to feel that the years of regrets 
had not been empty ones. 


As she drained the last of her tea Mrs. Renshew 
glanced at her watch and remarked: 

“How the time flies—and what an absorbing visit 
Lorraine Trevelyan must be having with her girl 
friend!” 

“Isn’t it curious!” replied Gertie Abercrombie. “I 
must ask her fiance, Mr. Stevens, all about it.” 

“Do, dear,” said Mrs. Renshew sweetly. “I’m 
sure that he’ll be interested.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


QO IT came to Lorraine that Arthur, preserving an 
^ incognito in prison rather than revert to his boy¬ 
hood habit of calling for family help, was fulfilling a 
destiny of whose structure she could only glimpse a 
fragmentary detail here and there. It was impos¬ 
sible for her to grasp the scope of the finished work, 
or yet assist in its construction. She could only do 
what seemed immediately of aid, conscious that even 
the blunders might play a part in the divine design. 

“I suppose that Arthur’s right.” 

She turned to Smooth Sullivan with this admis¬ 
sion. Its finality still had its sting, and for a mo¬ 
ment her lips quavered as she continued: 

“It does seem hard—that there should be all this 
suffering—” 

Smooth, who had been delighted with the apparent 
success of his delicacy in breaking the news of Ar¬ 
thur’s imprisonment to Lorraine, was beset with new 
fears that she was going to yield to the tumult of her 
emotions. He cast about in his mind for something 
which would repress the threatened flow of tears. It 
happened that he noticed the suitcase he had brought. 

“Say!” he exclaimed. “I belong in the funny- 
house ! A big city’s no place for me!” 

Smooth rapped mournfully at his head. Lorraine 
stared at him inquiringly. 


After the Ball 


191 


“I’m just a dumb-bell, lady,” he apologized. 
“Here I chase all across the country with this bag to 
show you, an’ then I forget all about it! I’m good, 
I am!” 

“Why, what is in it?” Lorraine asked. She had a 
premonition that more poise-shattering news was 
still to come. “Is it Arthur’s?” 

“In a way it’s his—an’ more than that.” 

Smooth fumbled at the clasps and freed the strap. 
He raised the lid, disclosing a litter of odds and ends 
of discarded feminine apparel. Lorraine watched 
him, fascinated at the possibility of what was to be 
discovered in the bag. 

“Now here’s a dress—” Smooth began. He lifted 
the garment from the case and held it awkwardly 
before him. 

Lorraine took the dress from his hands and 
straightened its wrinkled folds. It was the gown 
that Gilda had worn the night when the two girls had 
met. The inerasible memories came surging back. 
She could picture Gilda’s blond loveliness as she 
stood, with Arthur’s arm around her, while Arthur 
announced their marriage and faced his father’s 
stormy wrath. 

“How did you get it ?” Lorraine breathed. Every¬ 
thing depended on Smooth’s answer. 

Rapidly Smooth sketched his efforts to find Gilda 
in New York. He told how he had learned of 
Gilda’s accident, how a search of hospital records 
had at last located the place to which she was taken, 
and how, through a nurse with whom Gilda had 
warmed to friendship, he had learned of the room- 


192 


After the Ball 


ing-house to which Gilda had moved from the hos¬ 
pital. There was a hiatus in his narrative that Lor¬ 
raine, fingering the frail fabric of the dinner gown, 
failed to notice. 

“You didn’t find any direct trace of her?” she 
asked. 

“No, ma’am,” Smooth responded, “but—” 

“How I wish I could have known more of her,” 
Lorraine mused. “She was so sweet—so natural 
and genuine. She would have been my sister truly. 
It’s strange—we meet, and love someone. Then an 
incident occurs—a little jostling that separates our 
ways, and we go on, and live, and have only the 
illusion of what might have been. We’re like stars, 
that kiss as their orbits come in momentary contact, 
and then swing off into infinite space.” 

“I know what you mean, lady. A few times 
there’s been a bimbo I’ve wanted for a side-kick— 
but he’s had to beat it, or get pinched, or fall for a 
skirt, an’ somethin’s always happened.” 

“She wouldn’t have come to us for help,” Lor¬ 
raine surmised correctly, “but I wish she had let us 
know where to reach her. Where do you suppose 
she’s gone—back to the stage ?” 

“Well, later, possibly. You see—” 

Again Smooth was prevented from telling what 
was on his mind. 

“Then couldn’t we find her through the theatrical 
agencies ?” 

“It would be a long hunt, Miss Trevelyan. Like 
as not, she’s changed her name, if she is in the show 
business. Names to those people are like last year’s 


After the Ball 193 

glad rags—easy to change for somethin’ more 
catchy.” 

The hopelessness of the impasse was overbearing. 
Lorraine plucked experimentally at a seam that had 
been stitched to cover the ravages of wear. 

“I wonder why she left this dress behind her. 
Surely she could not have so large a supply of 
clothes.” 

“She couldn’t help herself, Miss,” Smooth stated. 
“I got this stuff from the landlady that was holdin’ 
it.” 

“But why should the landlady hold her clothes?” 
Lorraine never had come in contact with that device 
for enforcing payment of lodging accounts. 

“Well, there was a bill—•”* 

“Oh—didn’t she have any money?” 

“She had some, all right, for a while. You see, 
she had to go back to the hospital, an’ then her 
money ran out, after she returned to this furnished 
room, with her baby—” 

“Her what?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Smooth turned again to the suitcase. He brushed 
to one side the negligee, now sadly worn and frayed, 
that had been Gilda’s during the halcyon days of her 
honeymoon. Reticently, as if afraid of an indeli¬ 
cacy in exposing the intimate belongings, he searched 
through Gilda’s former possessions until he un¬ 
earthed a tiny garment that showed the results of 
many weary hours over a washtub. 

He held the rumpled fabric before him awk¬ 
wardly. It was a baby’s nainsook dress, pretty even 


194 


After the Ball 


in its disarray. All the tenderness of its maker for 
the wee person who was to wear it had been sewn 
into the diminutive sleeves and lace-edged wrist¬ 
bands. 

Wide-eyed, deeply stirred, Lorraine pressed the 
baby’s dress between her hands. Her throat ached 
with the sharpness of what it all meant. She held 
its cool folds against her face, and a lingering echo 
of a gurgling laughter and a baby’s cooing voice 
seemed to peal faintly in her ears. She closed her 
eyes tightly to shut out flashes of visions of Arthur 
—Gilda—their baby. . . . 

At length she forced herself to glance at Smooth, 
who was mingling diffidence and self-importance in 
his embarrassment. Her eyes were huge question- 
marks. 

“His?” she breathed softly. 

Smooth nodded. He watched as her lips formed 
an inquiry, so quietly spoken that he sensed, rather 
than heard, its meaning. 

“Four years ago,” he told her. 

“And there’s been no word of her since?” Lor¬ 
raine asked. 

“No, ma’am. She never came back for the 
clothes.” 

The knowledge that of her brother’s flesh and 
blood, only the inanimate dress remained as a tan¬ 
gible point of contact for her, was too much for 
her already overtaut nerves. With a sudden sweep 
of relief, the flood-gates of her emotion burst open, 
and she wept, the warm, comforting tears bathing 
and soothing her straining eyes, and dropping un¬ 
heeded upon the dress lying in her lap. 


After the Ball 


195 


Smooth Sullivan, wise in the ways of women, 
was content at first to let the tears fall. But soon 
he became aware that his collar was tight. He 
fingered it nervously. His coat, triumph of a tailor’s 
tape, suddenly had grown bulky at the neck, and he 
shrugged his shoulders to shift its position. She 
was sobbing gently now, and the situation was one 
difficult for him to face. 

“Aw, say, Miss Trevelyan!” he protested. “You 
mustn’t take on like that!” 

Lorraine nodded in acquiescence and tried to sum¬ 
mon a smile, but the effort was woefully a failure. 
Smooth was increasingly uncomfortable. Then in¬ 
spiration came. 

He groped again into the suitcase and brought 
out still another object. He held it before him 
speculatively. 

“This here, now—would it be for a boy or a girl ?” 

The question—the realization that she had no 
knowledge even of Arthur’s baby’s sex, roused Lor¬ 
raine from her thoughts. She hastily shook the last 
tear from her face and looked at what Smooth was 
showing her. In his hand, ridiculously small con¬ 
trasted against his thick fingers, was a shoe—a soft, 
pearl-buttoned boot, whose scuffed toe spoke elo¬ 
quently of hours when its wearer, first learning to 
crawl, had dragged it along the floor. 

Lorraine took the shoe and held it in her hand. 
An explorative finger caressed the impressions made 
by the toes that had wiggled beneath the leather. 
She shook her head hopelessly. 

“I don’t know,” she responded, half in hysterical 
laughter. “Isn’t it odd? I learn that I’m an aunt 


196 After the Ball 

—but I don’t know whether I have a nephew or a 
niece.” 

Then appreciation of what Smooth Sullivan had 
accomplished for her—how he had hunted her out, 
unselfishly, possibly at the risk of his own unstable 
affairs, to carry out his promise to her brother, 
drove away the poignant wonderings. Impulsively 
she placed her hand on his and said: 

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am! If there’s 
any way to repay you—” 

Her warm touch, mingled with the softness of 
her voice, threw Smooth from his carefully attained 
aplomb. He shifted his feet and interrupted: 

“Aw, that’s all right—” 

He gestured magnificently. Something of a knight 
who slays dragons for maidens was in his manner 
as he continued: 

“It ain’t every fellow who gets a chance to do 
somethin’ for a lady like you. Why, I’m honored, 
Miss.” 

But he found words scanty along this theme, and 
hastily switched his thoughts. 

“But, say!” 

Lorraine glanced quickly at him as she noted the 
interrogation in his tone. 

“You’ll remember not to spill the beans?” 

The transition was too abrupt for her to follow. 
She repeated his words blankly. 

Smooth caught the lack of understanding in her 
expression. Mentally he kicked himself for having 
phrased his query so crudely. Then he tried again. 

“You know—pipe it off that the boy is up the 
river ?” 


After the Ball 197 

Lorraine’s smile told him that he had made his 
meaning clear. 

“I won’t,” she promised. “If I could only be 
sure that my silence will be of help to him. You’re 
sure he’s going to be released ?” 

“There’s nothin’ to it, Miss,” Smooth replied. 
Now he was on firm ground again. “It’s all cut 
and dried. He’ll get a reduction for good behavior, 
an’ be showin’ up one of these days before you know 
it.” 

The hope that showed in the swell jane’s eyes 
repaid Smooth fully for his mission to her. He felt 
himself expanding again, now that the strain of 
breaking the news was over. He cast about for a 
means of making his departure a graceful one. 

“There’s nothin’ more I can do? Just say the 
good word.” 

“Nothing,” Lorraine replied. “You’ve been won¬ 
derful.” 

Smooth started to back away, twirling his hat 
around a finger. 

“Well, oh, reservoir, as they say.” 

“Oh, reservoir,” Lorraine responded. She watched 
as he worked his way toward the door. She found 
herself liking immensely this worldly, unethical, 
lumbering creature, so wise to the frailties of his fel¬ 
lows, so anxious lest he betray a softness beneath his 
surface sophistication. 

At the door he turned and glanced backward at 
her. Their eyes met. In a way which Smooth 
would have found far too ethereal for articulation, 
they exchanged a message of sympathy and a bond 


198 After the Ball 

of fellowship across the chasm that separated their 
lives. 

Lorraine touched her fingers to her lips and tossed 
a kiss toward him. It was her thank-offering, and 
Smooth so gave it reception. Nevertheless, it was 
with confused thoughts of rose-covered bowers, his 
general unworthiness, and vague ideas of reforming 
for her sake, that he gulped to lessen his blood- 
pressure, and groped his way toward the elevators. 

In the lobby below, Smooth found himself face 
to face once more with his titular enemy, the hotel 
detective. But now Smooth had lost all reason for 
fear. The damsel of his dreams had buckled on his 
spurs, and more of an ogre than a dick in a derby 
would not have caused him to quail. 

Smooth nodded to the detective in casual famil¬ 
iarity. He paused, as if to pass the time of day. 
The detective regarded the confidence man with 
dour suspicion. 

“There’s nothin’ doin’, Smooth,” the detective 
warned. “The lid’s on, an’ the chief’s put the In¬ 
dian sign on grafters like you. You better beat it 
before they run you in as a vag.” 

Smooth smiled and shook his head confidently. 

“I’m not worryin’. I’m only a tourist; I am out 
here for my health, see? I’m not workin’ any lay.” 

Smooth stared at a point on the detective’s blue 
serge lapel. His focused gaze attracted the other’s 
attention and the detective shifted his glance. When 
Smooth was sure that he had achieved the effect he 
desired, he reached forward with meticulous care 
and brushed away an imaginary bit of dust. 


After the Ball 199 

“Well, I’m just warnin’ you, that’s all,” the de¬ 
tective remarked. 

“Oh, sure! Just a good-natured pal,” Smooth 
returned with heavy sarcasm. 

“Say! You’re gettin’ pretty fresh!” The detec¬ 
tive was unused to such effrontery from those whom 
he was accustomed to inspire with fear. 

“Who, me?” Smooth’s tone was bland inno¬ 
cence itself. “Me fresh? Why, I’m just a feelin’ 
friendly, because I like everybody. Lemme prove 
it to yuh.” 

Smooth plucked his white carnation from his 
lapel and glanced quickly at it. It had been the 
crest upon his helmet with which he had ridden to 
tournament, and it had served its purpose well. 
Before the officer could interfere, Smooth grasped 
the detective’s lapel, thrust the stem of the blossom 
through a button-hole, adjusted the “set” of the 
blue serge coat collar, flicked off another invisible 
bit of debris, and stepped back a pace to survey the 
effect of the decoration on the dignitary. 

“There you are, old dear, as we say in London. 
Couldn’t be better. See you later.” 

Then, before the outraged arm of the law could 
express his indignation or retaliate, Smooth swung 
on his heel, gave a self-congratulatory tap to his hat 
to settle it more in place, strode jauntily across the 
lobby, and vanished through the revolving doors. 
The flow of sidewalk traffic swept him up. With it 
he drifted, a roving buccaneer with all flags flying 
and each gun-port manned. 

Left to herself, Lorraine Trevelyan lingered over 
the suitcase, reluctant to put away from sight the 


200 


After the Ball 


priceless souvenirs. She folded carefully the nain¬ 
sook gown, pressing out its wrinkles upon her knees. 
She sought and found the mate to the tiny shoe, and 
placed them side by side in the palm of her hand. 
Her eyes grew larger as she listened mentally to the 
story that the shoes related. 

At length, entranced by the thoughts within her, 
she slowly packed the suitcase and closed its clasps. 
Moving like one walking in a dream, she crossed 
the room and descended the elevators. Still in the 
glow of the spell which Smooth’s words had cast 
about her, she passed across the lobby and onto the 
street. 

The suitcase in her hand was the most conspic¬ 
uous object to be seen as Gertie Abercrombie called 
Mrs. Renshew’s attention to her passage. 

“What would Tom Stevens say?” she speculated. 
She knew, and Mrs. Renshew guessed, that Stevens 
soon would have a chance to satisfy her wonder. 


CHAPTER XVII 


r I a HE, lingering shadows of an eastern twilight 
softened the harsh outlines of the prison yard. 
The gray, rough-quarried stones of the buildings, 
the forbidding heights of the all-surrounding walls, 
took on a kindlier tone in the touch of dusk. 

A gong sounded. As at a signal, an arc-light 
overhead began to sputter and then became fixed in 
a permanency of glare. The cone of hard radiance 
it threw illuminated the quadrangle formed by the 
adjoining buildings in the foreground and at each 
side, and by the exterior wall beyond which ran 
the river. 

Coldly barren, the flint-covered expanse of the 
yard was blotched with disks of light from the arcs 
which sprang into luminance in quick succession to 
the first. The reflected beams picked out the exte¬ 
riors of the prison buildings. Nearby, to the right, 
was the broom factory, closed for the night. Far¬ 
ther away was the dining-hall, one corner of which 
jutted into the yard at abrupt angles. Beyond that 
was the river wall, upon the parapet of which a 
prison guard paced monotonously, yet alert, along 
his beat from the dining-hall to a sentry box 
perched at a far corner, to the left. 

The clamor of the gong had scarcely ceased when 
a door of the dining-hall, at the rear of the yard 
near the river wall, swung open and another guard 
appeared. The prisoners had finished their evening 


202 


After the Ball 


meal and now were being marshaled back to the tiers 
of cells in which they were to spend another of the 
endless nights. 

As the guard stepped to one side, the head of the 
file of marching men emerged from the dining-hall. 
They were not in lock-step. Some semblance of 
humaneness had done away with that degrading 
device, and they were walking briskly, with only a 
superficial effort at unison of step, with the guard 
at one side of the convict at the head of the column. 

The guard pacing the parapet of the wall slowed 
in his beat while the column of prisoners was in 
sight. He shifted his rifle from one shoulder to the 
other and watched with easy poise. It was among 
the chief of his duties to see that no unit of that line 
of herded men parted from its fellows. 

The head of the column reached the corner of the 
dining-hall building. Long habit made it unneces¬ 
sary for the guard to give instructions. Automati¬ 
cally the bell-weather of the gray-clad flock turned 
around the corner. His follower traced his leader’s 
footsteps, and the procession continued. This night 
there was to be an after-supper motion picture show, 
and the men moved at an accelerated pace. 

The tail of the queue now also emerged from the 
dining-hall, and the second of the guards in charge 
of the movement of the men stepped out in the wake 
of the last. He reached backward, without looking, 
and grasped the edge of the outward-swinging door. 
Still acting by habit, he swung it, as he thought, 
closed behind him. He failed to note that a wedge 
of wood, inserted by someone at the hinge, caused 


After the Ball 203 

the door to be checked in its motion and to rebound 
outward again. 

Three-Finger Murphy, as he neared the corner of 
the building, nudged cautiously at the elbow of Ar¬ 
thur Trevelyan, who immediately preceded him. 
Arthur, without turning his head, nodded in re¬ 
sponse to the signal. 

Not so conspicuously as to be noticed, Arthur 
slackened his stride. An appreciable interval grew 
between him and the man ahead as he approached 
the corner. The distance lengthened. 

From his position on the wall, the guard on the 
parapet failed to observe the break in the line. The 
foreshortened perspective carried the illusion that 
Arthur and his predecessor were closely placed. 

Another step, and Arthur would reach the cor¬ 
ner. It was the moment for which they had planned. 
There was agony in the thought that the guard in 
the rear might be observing his actions, yet he dared 
not turn his head lest the motion arouse suspicion. 

Everything depended upon what lay around that 
corner. If their opportunity still existed, the cam¬ 
paign they had outlined, move by move, their whis¬ 
pered scheming, might bring success. If not—but 
the alternative of waiting for more interminable 
days for another chance was too discouraging to 
contemplate. Arthur braced his nerves, caught his 
breath sharply, and rounded the angle. Close at his 
heels was Murphy. 

Within a few feet of the corner, beyond the range 
of vision of the guard at the rear, was a large pack¬ 
ing-case that had been remade to serve as a recep- 


204 


After the Ball 


tacle for the rakes and brooms with which the quad¬ 
rangle was kept in order. It was upon the prox¬ 
imity of this catch-all to the building wall that their 
strategies were based. A few scant inches, to allow 
the raising of the tool-box, formed a precious inter¬ 
stice against the masonry. 

The crucial moment came. Arthur, as the new 
angle of vision arose, saw the column of gray-clad 
backs before him, flanked by the leading guard. No 
faces were turning backward. The man next in line 
ahead of him was several feet distant. Here was his 
chance. 

He flowed, rather than jumped, from the line of 
march to the shelter of the tool-box, and threw him¬ 
self full length into the narrow space between the 
wall and wooden frame. The next moment his 
breath was crushed momentarily from him by the 
silent impact of Murphy’s body as his accomplice 
in the conspiracy dropped upon him. For a space 
the two were motionless, scarce daring to breathe. 

Then the convict behind Murphy also swung 
around the corner. The man was intent upon the 
evening’s entertainment soon to come. So great an 
importance had the prospect of a movie diversion 
assumed that the marcher failed to notice the disap¬ 
pearance of Murphy and Arthur. Still on the blind 
side of the corner the guard at the tail of the line 
was all in ignorance of what had happened. 

Fearful for the success of their tactics, Arthur 
and Murphy remained inert until the first heart¬ 
pounding strain of their attempt had passed. Then 
Murphy shifted his position to relieve his aching 
arms and legs. Arthur turned slightly on his side. 


After the Ball 


205 


His lungs were bursting, and the inrush of air at 
his first full breath carried the shock of an icy 
plunge. 

From where he lay, he found one eye pressed 
against the boards of the tool-box. A faint ray of 
light penetrated through the increasing darkness 
and caught attention. He moved ever so slightly, 
and peered through the crevice between two boards. 

On the other side of the box was etched, where 
a corresponding interval between the planks per¬ 
mitted the play of illumination, a thin long line of 
light reflected from the arc nearby. Intermittent 
flickers of sharp outline and shadow told of the legs 
of the marchers moving beyond. 

In the brief interval consumed by the passage of 
the line, what seemed like an eternity transpired 
before Arthur detected the darker hue of the blue- 
trousered legs of the rear guard passing at the end 
of the line. The rasping scuffle of the rough-shod 
feet was growing dimmer. The receding footsteps 
became muffled. There was the metallic crash of a 
door slamming somewhere beyond. Then quietness, 
broken by the measured cadence of a patrol upon a 
nearer parapet. 

The beating of Arthur’s traitor heart was not to 
be stilled. Dread that the absence of the two from 
the line would be discovered, and that they would 
be trapped behind the box, dragged ignominiously 
from their covert, and subjected to the scalding 
scorn of thwarted efforts, assailed him. It seemed 
certain that the watcher upon the wall would hear 
the thunderous pounding within his chest. 

Murphy’s nudge spurred him into action. Better 


206 


After the Ball 


a bullet from the guard than to lie and be subjected 
to harrowing possibilities. 

With his elbows serving as a fulcrum, Arthur 
pried his body from the vise-like grip of the wall and 
box, and edged himself gingerly toward the opening 
at one end. So softly that motion was imperceptible, 
he thrust his head forward. 

The quadrangle was exposed before him. It was 
bare of occupants. The coast, so far, was clear, for 
the guard upon the wall that skirted the railroad 
tracks on the landward side of the prison, now that 
the convicts had been taken to their cells, was prop¬ 
ping himself for rest in the interior of his sentry- 
box. 

Hastily Arthur emerged from the protection of 
the tool box. Crouched, on hands and knees, he 
crept along its side. He melted into the obscurity 
of the half-light. When he had reached the corner 
around which he had taken the all-important step 
at what seemed centuries ago, he paused. He beck¬ 
oned backward. 

Murphy responded to the signal. He was well 
content to let Arthur take the initiative in carrying 
out the actual development of their escape. Fol¬ 
lowing Arthur’s example, he slid himself toward 
his leader’s heels. 

Arthur profited by the niche between two blocks 
of stone to glimpse, with one eye, the perilous path 
ahead. The guard on the river wall was pacing 
toward his sentry-box, and his back was turned. 
The arc-lights beat less sharply on the narrow space 
of ground at the side of the building. The way 
was open. 


After the Ball 


207 


Arthur’s body glided around the corner. He 
hugged the masonry as he moved, bent double. 
Murphy synchronized his action with that of Ar¬ 
thur. The two, creeping like slightly grayer ghosts 
against the gray monotone of the yard, worked 
their way toward their goal at the river wall. 

Abruptly Arthur halted and threw himself face 
down upon the hinted yard. His movement was 
automatic, for his ears had heard Murphy’s shoe 
scratch the side of the wall, and he had seen the 
guard pause in walking his beat. 

The guard, silhouetted against the blackness of 
the sky, swung his rifle into the cradle of his arms. 
He turned sharply toward the sound. There was 
an ominous click as he cocked his firing-piece. 

The fugitives were inert, motionless. Each fleet¬ 
ing moment added to the suspense of what must be 
the instant of discovery. 

There was a stabbing pain in Arthur’s palms that 
he did not notice. His finger-nails were pressing 
into the clenched flesh so sharply that the blood 
began to flow. 

The guard poised his rifle. Its muzzle pointed 
toward the lurking figures against the wall. For a 
moment its aim was steady. Then the barrel wav¬ 
ered, and swept on. 

‘Tm goin’ to quit this job,” the guard told him¬ 
self. “It’s got me where I’m seein’ things that 
ain’t.” 

He resumed his stride. The exultation of peril 
was over. Arthur was spent and shaken as he 
watched the sentry march away. He was acutely 
conscious of a cold sweat coming in reaction to the 


208 


After the Ball 


revulsion of emotion. But he knew he must not 
yield to weakness—must press forward to conclu¬ 
sion, toward success or obliteration. 

He tensed his muscles for the final dash which 
would take him to the shelter of the door of the 
dining-hall, so carefully left ajar. He felt Mur¬ 
phy’s hand press at his ankle, and moved his foot 
slightly in answer. 

Then he gathered himself to his hands and feet. 
He looked once more toward the guard. The fig¬ 
ure of the watchman was smaller now, outlined 
vaguely against the sentry-box at the distant corner 
of the wall. 

Only the faint sputter of the arc-light was audible 
as the two ran rapidly along the wall. Even Mur¬ 
phy, stocky and ponderous, acquired a lightness of 
foot in the emergency. They reached the door. 
Arthur, still in the lead, swirled around it and sank 
to the ground. The next moment Murphy was at 
his side. They paused, squatting in Indian fashion, 
to catch their breaths and take advantage of the 
haven offered by the triangle of refuge which the 
door formed as it swung against the river wall. 

Now spurred with a reckless courage inspired by 
their miraculous escape from exposure so little a 
while before, Arthur groped at his feet for the man¬ 
hole cover that was to be the next landmark in their 
struggle for freedom. Its cold surface met his 
touch. He forced his fingers, regardless of the pain 
protested by the bruised flesh, between the cover 
and its iron rim. 

He tugged carefully, but forcefully, at the metal. 
It yielded ever so slightly. There was a nerve- 


After the Ball 209 

chilling rasp as the rusted segments parted. Then 
the lid came clear, and Arthur raised it on edge. 

He held the lid to one side, and motioned to Mur¬ 
phy. Cautiously, gradually, Murphy lowered him¬ 
self into the aperture. In a moment he had disap¬ 
peared. In another moment Arthur had swung his 
feet into the tunnel also, and started to lower his 
body downward. 

A dank, musty odor assailed his nostrils as he 
began to enter the storm-drain into which the man¬ 
hole opened. One hand, braced against the brick¬ 
work, felt the moisture that fringed the surface of 
the drain. Below him he could hear Murphy’s body 
scraping against the walls of the tunnel. 

Painfully, with straining muscle, Arthur lowered 
himself into the drain. At last his foot touched a 
ledge and gave him place to rest his body. The 
weight of the manhole cover pressed at his wrist 
tendons. He flexed his arm and allowed the lid 
to drop slowly back into place. A moment of tor¬ 
ture came when his fingers, gripping the edge of 
the cover, were caught between the iron and the 
rim. They were being torn and crushed—it seemed 
apparent that they would be shea^d off by the 
pressure of the weight. He gritted his teeth, forced 
himself to stand the agony, and pulled his fingers, 
bleeding and bruised, free from their imprisonment. 

He found that he could stand erect in the vertical 
shaft of the drain. He explored the bottom with 
his toe, and located the beginning of the transverse 
section. He stooped, thrust his arms forward in 
the encloaking darkness, and then entered the hori¬ 
zontal shaft head-first. 


210 


After the Ball 


Somewhere ahead, he heard, was Murphy. Some¬ 
where, too, ahead was water, for he was aware of a 
soft splash. The drain sloped downward as he 
followed its path. 

After the first few feet he discovered himself 
forced to abandon efforts to creep on hands and 
knees. The diameter of the drain was growing 
smaller. Soon it was necessary to lie flat and make 
a snail-like progress by propelling himself ahead 
with foot-thrusts against the sides of the tunnel. 
His shoulders were constricted. The air, too, was 
growing foul. 

Almost, then, he screamed from sheer shock. 
Abruptly .a living, scrambling, furry creature had 
brushed from nowhere against his face. He struck 
wildly at it and his hand encountered the harsh 
bristles of a sewer-rat. As the animal scampered 
over his back and backward along the drain he was 
engulfed by a paralyzing nausea. 

When he had pulled himself together it was to 
grope forward with a desperate abandon. His 
hands, stretched ahead, were abraded by the rough¬ 
ness of the cement that lined the drain. Suddenly 
he was conscious of a cooling relief from the pin¬ 
pricks that occurred with each arduous foot of prog¬ 
ress. 

He moved a hand tentatively to confirm the dulled 
impression telegraphed by the nerve-tips of his fin¬ 
gers. There was no doubt. His hands were dab¬ 
bling in a pool of water of which he could detect no 
further rim. 

The probabilities were appalling. He splashed 
experimentally. When the echoing reverberations 


After the Ball 211 

of the falling drops had died, there was no further 
sound. 

“Murphy!” he whispered. No answer came. 

“Murphy!” This time he was reckless of un¬ 
wanted hearers. 

Still only the dying echoes came to him. 

On the farther side of that pool of wetness, he 
wondered, was—what? Probably the dead body of 
his companion adventurer, lying at the bottom of 
the drain-pit, waiting to tell him. 

He was in a hysteria of doubt. Somehow, by 
what devious windings he could not tell, he knew 
that the drain opened into the river. But what 
traps lay between him and that flowing refuge he 
could only surmise. The heavy silence hinted of 
deaths unspeakable. 

Better to return and face discovery, risk the fire 
of the guards in one mad, suicidal dash across the 
prison yard, than to be drowned in a trap, like the 
rat that had startled him. He shrank from the 
water’s edge and tried to shove his body backward, 
as a crawfish advances by retreating. 

And then he found that he could not return. The 
same narrowness of passageway that had cramped 
his shoulders now closed in with almost animate 
malice, and he discovered that he was only wedging 
his body ineradicably in the narrow tube. There 
was no room to retrace his path. To remain where 
he was meant inevitably a slow starvation. He 
could only go ahead. 

He resumed his position at the edge of the water. 
Slowly he forced his body forward until shoulders 
and arms were below the surface. His hands, 


212 


After the Ball 


moving like tentacles, touched the bottom of the 
drain. His head was thrown back upon his neck at 
an acute angle to keep his nostrils above the water. 

He filled his lungs with the fetid atmosphere and 
poised himself. One plunge would decide it all. A 
minute or two, and then— 

He took the plunge. Head submerged beneath 
the sullen, enveloping water, he scrambled forward. 
Advancement for the first few feet was easier now, 
for the water served as lubrication and he found 
that the cement walls no longer retarded him with 
their roughness. He was half-crawling, half-swim¬ 
ming. 

And then his heart began to pound a protest at 
being denied its oxygen. His lungs were bursting, 
their tissues ruptured by the strain of impounding 
still the breath that no longer served its revivifying 
purpose. The drums of death were beating demo¬ 
niacally in his ears. 

A devastating temptation to give up, to open his 
mouth to the obliterating inrush of water, to seek 
oblivion in the darkness before his staring, unseeing 
eyes, overwhelmed him. He relaxed his muscles 
and abandoned himself to the sweetness of an end 
without struggle. 

And then he was being buoyed up, carried through 
the swirling waters without volition on his part. 
He waited, puzzled, for the shock of striking 
against the top of the drain, but the impact did not 
come. The blackness had a lesser depth of hue. 
Then his head broke above the surface of the water, 
and he found himself gasping, enjoying each pierc¬ 
ing agony of fresh inhalation. 


After the Ball 


213 


Before him, three-fourths submerged, was the 
mouth of the tunnel through which he had come. 
The dim under-light of a clouded sky was reflected 
in the surface of the river. Beside him was Mur¬ 
phy, treading water and waiting. 

“Thought yuh was gone, kid,” Murphy whispered 
when Arthur had regained his sense. “C’mon, le’s 
go!” 

Moving slowly, cautiously, fearing that any 
sound of splashing would be observed, Murphy led 
the way and started to swim along the wall. Arthur 
responded eagerly. His arms and legs found lever- 
age against the water. He was filled with a glow 
of conquest. The physical exertion brought balm 
to cramped and tortured tendons. Th£ wavelets of 
the stream, slapping softly against his face, ex¬ 
hilarated him. He rested himself for a moment, 
floating buoyantly. Then he followed in Murphy’s 
wake, swimming lustily, exultingly, toward liberty 
and life. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


U T) UT I can’t let you go yet! It’s such a mar- 
velous night, and 3^011’re so glorious—” 

Tom Stevens placed his hand lightly over Lor¬ 
raine’s, to check her as she started to move from the 
car and go into her home. 

“It’s late, dear, and I have a busy day ahead. 
There are a thousand details concerning the ball 
tomorrow night that are still unfinished.” 

“Just a few moments—please?” Tom coaxed. 

Lorraine relaxed, acquiescing. As she sank back 
into the seat of the roadster, Tom switched off the 
lights. Immediately the moon’s illumination seemed 
to flood them with its soft, enchanting radiance. 
The miniature pines that lined the driveway were 
silvery-green sentinels surrounding them. 

For a moment they were silent. Lorraine played 
with the fringe on her flimsy scarf, absorbed in her 
thoughts. Tom was saturating himself with the 
luxury of the precious reality of their romance. 

Lorraine I sighed lightly. A little tremor ran over 
her. Anxipusly he placed her scarf closer around 
her shouldeirs. 

“You’re cold, and I’m keeping you out in the air,” 
he accused himself. 

“No, truly,” she assured him. “Probably just a 
bit tired.” 

She roused herself from her abstraction and 
smiled brightly. Eager to make the most of the 


After the Ball 215 

fleeting interlude, Tom warmed gratefully to the 
smile. He snuggled her in his arms. 

“You see,” he explained, “I couldn't let you go 
without telling you some news that I’ve been sav¬ 
ing. Can you guess?” 

Lorraine shook her head. 

“Good news?” she asked. 

“Best ever!” Tom replied. 

Still immersed in her own universe of whirling 
thoughts, she waited to hear, watching the silken 
fringe as it flowed idly across her fingers. 

“It’s what I was hoping for, even before we be¬ 
came engaged,” Tom told her. He was enthusiastic 
now. “There’s been a shake-up at the office—poli¬ 
tics and stuff—” 

He paused to gather the full force of the dramatic 
climax of his announcement, and continued: 

“So the District Attorney has made me his chief 
deputy!” 

His news fell flat. Lorraine really had been try¬ 
ing to listen, at least with part of her consciousness, 
but she was wrestling with a dilemma that de¬ 
manded all her wits. 

Ever since she had learned, the day before, of all 
that Smooth Sullivan had told her, she had been 
anxious to share with Tom her own glorious in¬ 
formation that her brother was alive. Her first 
instinct had been to run to the man she loved and 
live again the dizzy thrill of her knowledge by tell¬ 
ing him all about Arthur and his apparent resurrec¬ 
tion from the grave, his whereabouts, even if this 
was in an eastern prison, and even the fact of 
Arthur’s parenthood. 


216 


After the Ball 


But like a thwarting bondage, there had been 
always uppermost in her mind the prohibition 
Smooth had issued: “Be sure and don’t spill the 
beans!” She had come to realize the necessity of 
keeping this chapter in Arthur’s life a secret. 

In consequence, her heart was heavy at having 
to shut off a corner of her thought from this man 
to whom already she had given all her soul and 
love. She felt that by not confiding in him, she 
was being forced to raise an intangible barrier be¬ 
tween their hearts. 

And as she dwelt upon this mental obstacle, her 
absent, distrait manner made itself sharply notice¬ 
able to Tom. 

He had been saving his good news until it could 
be told with greatest effect. With boyish enthu¬ 
siasm, he had pictured how she would glow with 
pride in him, how her warm congratulations would 
lift his soaring spirits still higher, how he would 
have the opportunity to remind her that it was her 
inspiration which had won this stepping-stone to 
fame for him. 

Instead of all these, it was as if he had spoken 
about the weather. All his fine castles had come 
tumbling. He felt sunk, crestfallen. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” he apologized, 
hurt. 

The small-boy tone in his voice penetrated to Lor¬ 
raine more sharply than his previous words, and 
instantly, contrite, she spurred herself to response. 

“But I am pleased,” she asserted vigorously. 
“It’s wonderful luck, though I’m sure you deserve 
it. Forgive me, dearest; I was just thinking—” 


After the Ball 


217 


She caught herself in time. It wouldn’t do to 
devote words to describe her thoughts. She twitched 
her trend of mind hastily, and dissembled: 

“I was just thinking what an opportunity it is 
for you.” 

Her chance resourcefulness was a happy one. In¬ 
stantly Tom was all intent again upon his affairs, 
and what they meant to his practice of his profes¬ 
sion. Ambition welled within him, and he could 
feel that the former feeling of expansion was re¬ 
turning rapidly. 

“I can make a great record as a prosecutor,” he 
told her. “There’s a splendid chance to make a 
name for myself, and prosecutions, and convictions, 
bring publicity. Why, it’s a stepping stone—” 

His imagination leaped over the years to con¬ 
jure before her the heights to which he might win 
as the fearless Nemesis of evil-doers. And as his 
tongue grew eloquent with the buoyancy of his am¬ 
bitious dreams, he began sketching vividly the suc¬ 
cessive processes by which he planned to become a 
notable. 

How could he know that of all his phrases, Lor¬ 
raine heard clearly only the one word: “PROSECU¬ 
TOR?” It had an ominous, a fateful sound of doom. 
How could he know that in her eyes were not his 
visions, but those of her own, in which her brother 
was the solitary unit? How know that in her dis¬ 
torted sympathy, she was picturing Arthur as a 
diminutive, persecuted soul, seated listless, inert and 
lonely in a dank and gloomy cell whose walls and 
bars loomed gigantically around him, crushing, op¬ 
pressing with their fantastic curves and bulging 


218 


After the Ball 


sides? How was he to know that her unhappy 
fancy invested Arthur with a heavy ball and chain, 
or that, ankle-bound, this portrait of her brother 
stood for all that gave her unreasoning, instinctive 
hatred, transcending even her love for Tom, of that 
law and its machinations that had brought Arthur 
to such a pass? 

“I’ll hew to the line, dear,” he was telling her. 
“There is only one secret to success in the D. A.’s 
office—and that’s to be blind to everything but duty. 
If I stick to that, I’m bound to win!” 

He paused and waited for her to answer. The 
cessation of the cadences of his voice aroused her 
from her nightmare. A lingering echo of the 
exultation in his voice came to her aid, and she 
grasped quickly for a safe response. 

“Of course, dear,” she replied. “Of course you’re 
right.” 

“What a help you’ll be to me,” Tom said. Al¬ 
ready subconsciously he had thrown off the drab 
colors of the supplicant suitor, and was wearing the 
gay attire of the masterful, triumphant male who 
was relying but just a little upon an occasional ad¬ 
miring boost from his feminine entourage. 

“But now I must run to bed,” Lorraine pro¬ 
tested. “And—I’m so glad for your good fortune.” 

He smothered her in his arms for a space that 
seemed to him all too short. Then he released her 
and she sprang up the steps toward the front door 
of the Trevelyan home. As she reached the terrace 
level she paused. 

“Good-night, dear man,” she called. “Don’t for- 


After the Ball 219 

get tomorrow night, and be sure to come early 
for me.” 

She tossed a farewell kiss and watched as Tom 
speeded his roadster down the driveway. Then, as 
if removing a cloak that had grown too heavy, she 
dropped her guise of gayety. It was with a per¬ 
plexed and straining heart that she closed the door 
behind her. 


The Santa Fe freight rumbled along the base 
of the cliff beside the river, clattered over the 
switch-frogs at the throat of the yard, and came to 
a stop, with jerks and whistling of airbrakes, in 
the drab, dusty heart of the industrial section of 
Los Angeles. 

Almost before the wheels ceased turning, two 
figures, only slightly less begrimed and dusty than 
the yard, descended from their perch on the gird¬ 
ers of a crushed-rock gondola, and fled from the 
possible approach of a railroad special policeman. 
They scurried, panting and thirsty, along the side 
of the freight train, until they came to a road cross¬ 
ing near the neck of the yard. There they dodged 
up the street, and around a corner, where they 
paused for breath. 

“Some travellin’,” commented Three-Finger Mur¬ 
phy. “I thought sure I’d croak while the rattler 
was goin’ through the desert!” 

Arthur licked at his lips. A coat of alkali dust, 
mixed with soot from the crude oil burner of the 
locomotive, made them parched and burning. 

“God! To think that Fm really here!” 


220 


After the Ball 


Murphy grinned derisively at his companion. 

“Yeh,” he scoffed. “Here yuh are, all right! 
Chasin’ across the country! Gotta yen to see some 
skirt?” 

Arthur shuddered inwardly at this comparison of 
his Odyssey. As in dream-flashes he recalled their 
first furtive movements from the prison and their 
frightened efforts to obtain civilian clothing, end¬ 
ing with the purloining of their nondescript attire 
from a farmer’s back yard. Their arduous progress 
from New York across the continent, the incessant 
watch against observation, the roundabout delays 
occasioned by the wisdom of avoiding cities, the 
chilling waits at junction water towers in the early 
mornings, the bodily risks they had taken in board¬ 
ing moving trains, all passed in his memory like a 
hazy delirium. 

He cursed in retrospect as he remembered once, 
when a brakeman, suspecting that hoboes were rid¬ 
ing the brake beams, had lowered from the forward 
end of the car a coupling-pin attached to a rope. 
Arthur’s mind flinched in visualizing how the 
coupling-pin, as if alive with a demon, had bounded 
up and down, beating against the floor of the car 
like a flail, as it received each fresh impetus on strik¬ 
ing the ties of the road-bed. He and Murphy had 
clung to their rods in a paralysis of fear, not daring 
to move from their precarious position above the 
flying rails, yet aware that at each moment the coup¬ 
ling-pin might swirl upon them with deadly mo¬ 
mentum. Only the breaking of the rope had saved 
them from that peril. 


After the Ball 


221 


“This is my home, Murphy,” said Arthur simply, 
in explanation to his companion’s question. “That’s 
why I came. I just wanted to be—well, to be near 
some people I know here.” 

Murphy surveyed Arthur’s travel-worn, road-grit¬ 
ted costume. He laughed harshly. 

“You look swell to be goin’ callin,’ don’t yuh? 
Like to have ’em see yuh lookin’ like a bum, wouldn’t 
yuh?” 

The hot retort lingered on Arthur’s lips that 
those whom he knew would welcome him no mat¬ 
ter how he appeared. The image of Lorraine was 
so firmly fixed in his mind that it drew him toward 
her. He checked himself in time, realizing that it 
would never do to have Murphy gain a glimmering 
of Arthur’s connection with the Trevelyan home. 
Ugly hints of blackmail had been heard in the sur¬ 
reptitious chatter of his former prison colleagues. 

Murphy noted his companion’s hesitation and was 
quick to profit by it. 

“Here’s the lay,” he announced. “We’ll pull a 
stick-up—glom some bird’s poke—and get a stake, 
see? That’ll give yuh the price of some glad rags, 
an’ then yuh’ll be ready to see your moll. Whadda 
yuh say?” 

Arthur did not know what to say. He had come 
out of prison determined to let not the slightest ap¬ 
pearance of evil-doing attach itself to him; yet here, 
at the outset, pressure was being brought to bear 
on him to swing him into the channels of the under¬ 
world. He had heard it often discussed that once a 
jailbird, always a crook. Was that—must that— 


222 After the Ball 

hold good in his case? Not if he could help it, he 
vowed silently. 

But he must dissemble with his companion. Al¬ 
ready Murphy was threatening to fasten himself, 
leech-like, upon him. He feared the consequences 
of an open rupture. There had been too much talk 
of an enduring association founded upon the ordeal 
of their escape. 

“You got the looks, kid, and the style,” Murphy 
once had told him while they were rolling, atop of a 
box-car, across the flat sweeps of the Middle West. 
“I know the ropes, all of ’em. We’ll stick together, 
an’ clean up.” 

Now, he knew, Murphy already was planning a 
series of operations in this lucrative field, and 
counted upon Arthur’s active assistance and co¬ 
operation. 

“I guess you’re right,” Arthur appeared to yield. 
“Only, I’ve got to get my bearings first—get accus¬ 
tomed to moving around without looking backward 
all the time to see if a cop’s after me. Look here! 
What about that joint you were telling me about?” 

He referred to a pool-hall near First and San 
Pedro streets—a rendezvous for dips, yeggs, second- 
story men, bindle peddlers, and a headquarters for 
a fairly high-class mob with which Murphy hoped 
to make connection. 

“What about it?” Murphy repeated. 

“I was thinking,” Arthur replied, “that I could 
meet you there tomorrow noon.” 

Murphy pretended to ponder the suggestion. He 
knew that if he once let Arthur get away from him, 


After the Ball 223 

the separation would be a permanent one. At length 
he nodded. 

“Fair enough,” he consented. “That’s the place, 
then.” 

Arthur hastily shook Murphy’s hand, anxious to 
be away. He swung on his heel and strode down 
the pavement. Murphy, motionless, watched after 
him. When Arthur’s figure disappeared around 
a nearby corner, Murphy started to move rapidly. 
He was almost running until he reached the cor¬ 
ner. There he checked himself and glanced cau¬ 
tiously around the jutting building. Arthur was a 
half-hundred yards beyond. Smiling grimly to him¬ 
self, Murphy began to saunter after the other. He 
governed his pace to meet that of Arthur, and was 
careful not to be noticed in the act of trailing him. 
Purposefully, deliberately, he followed Arthur on 
his way, a haunting shadow, portentious, fore¬ 
boding. 


CHAPTER XIX 


O NCE a year in the name of Charity, there fore¬ 
gathered in the armory of a favorite National 
Guard company, those to whom the society editors 
of Los Angeles newspapers would refer the next 
morning as “the ultra-fashionable leaders of the 
haute monde of the Southland/’ There were the 
families of the oil millionaires, the real estate fin¬ 
anciers, the land and railroad dynasties, the “ar¬ 
tistic” motion picture producers who had submerged 
their origins in the retail clothing trade, and the 
nondescript who made up the fringe of the fabric. 
Lending savor to the ensemble were the representa¬ 
tives, some impoverished, some rolling in wealth as 
a result of the city’s growth, of those families of 
Latin names whose forebears had antedated the 
American invasion of the southwestern empire. 

It was one of the latter who approached Lorraine 
as the girl, accompanied by Tom Stevens, entered the 
drill-floor that served as a ballroom. The woman 
was a symphony in ivory. An ivory mask of a face 
was crowned by tresses that were massed high, in 
their cream-like glory, upon her head. An old- 
fashioned ivory back-comb, relic of who can tell 
what Caballero’s antique fancy, surmounted the 
structure. A stiff brocade gown, resurrected from 
some antiquated trunk expressly for the occasion, 
bolstered her shrunken frame. She was a walking 
mausoleum of the splendors of the Dons. 


After the Ball 


225 


“You have done well, my dear,” said the woman 
in congratulation. “Thank God that the poor we 
have always with us. Without them, how could we 
show ourselves to such splendid advantage?” 

Tom Stevens sensed the bitter raillery in the 
dowager’s voice. He stood a little apart. As he 
glanced at the two, he was struck by the glorious 
contrast between Lorraine’s sheer youthful beauty, 
and the woman’s pitiful efforts to cling to memories 
of her own duenna-guarded days of romance. He 
was anxious to take Lorraine away from the old per¬ 
son’s suggestion of walking mortality. 

“It does seem like a lot of effort for the results we 
gain,” Lorraine responded. “How much simpler 
things were done in your days, Mrs. Figueroa.” 

“Each to his own time,” the relic replied. “We 
did a little—on a small scale. You Americans build 
lavishly, spend lavishly, do great good lavishly and 
carelessly. Who is to judge? But I think—you 
lose a little—what shall I say?—grace of living in 
the doing.” 

“I think you are right,” Lorraine was agreeing. 
“Sometimes I wonder—” 

“Fortunes told! Let us read your future!” 

From one of the booths that lined the walls of the 
drill-room came the strident call of an amateur 
“ballyhoo” for a seeress at $5 a see. Tom seized 
upon the excuse. 

“We must learn your fortune,” he told Lorraine. 

Mrs. Figueroa’s eyes commanded him. He bowed 
ceremoniously and asked: 

“Will you excuse us?” 

“By all means,” she agreed. “It is the future 


226 


After the Ball 


only that interests you, quite properly. Your past 
is all before you.” 

She moved away in stately fashion. 

She makes me shiver,” Tom commented. “She’s 
like a ghost.” 

“A charming ghost,” Lorraine corrected. “She’s 
right. Our past is all before us. Let’s learn what 
it is to be.” 

As they moved toward the fortune-teller’s booth 
an elderly figure a few paces away caught sight of 
them and started toward them. An impertinent 
fragment of femininity, garbed fancifully for the 
event, grasped him by the lapel, and Mark Trevel¬ 
yan found himself being inveigled into buying a 
“chance,” at an exorbitant price, on a raffle of kew- 
pie dolls. When he had escaped from the trans¬ 
action, Lorraine and Tom had passed beyond the 
draped curtain and into the tent of the clairvoyant. 

Seated before them, surrounded with the familiar 
apparatus of the soothsayer, the sweethearts found 
one of the celebrities of the literary world who, 
lured by the lucre offered for the “picturization” of 
her cayenne-sprinkled novels, was sojourning in Los 
Angeles, and who now, always eager for the lime¬ 
light, had essayed the role of palmist and mystic. 

A green lantern shed its bilious rays over the ori¬ 
ental hangings of the tent and played upon the jade 
ornaments with which the author-seeress was cap¬ 
italizing her green eyes and mahogany hair. Her 
hands, decked with jade-set rings upon the fore¬ 
fingers, caressed the crystal gazing-ball that rested 
upon the table before her. 


After the Ball 


227 


“I am a Priestess of Love,” she announced, when 
Lorraine had seated herself at the opposite side of 
the table and Tom had taken a position, standing, 
at Lorraine’s side. “It is Love that makes the 
world go ’round.” 

She was unconscious of plagiarizing the phrase. 

Lorraine, amused at the theatrical setting, stole a 
twinkling exchange of glances with Tom. 

“Love is everything,” Madame the seeress con¬ 
tinued, not unmindful of the effect she was making. 
She gestured toward the crystal globe. 

“Think! Look into the crystal’s depths, and 
think! Think of Love!” 

Intent only upon the fun, Lorraine did as she was 
told. It w r as a lark, she reminded herself, in a spirit 
of foolery. 

Her eyes focused themselves upon the curves of 
the crystal sphere, and she stared intently. Her 
mind, automatically shut off from consciousness of 
the present, reverted to its perplexing worries. She 
found herself dwelling upon Arthur, and what 
Smooth Sullivan had told her of him. 

She was recalled to the moment by the drone of 
Madame’s voice. 

“There is a tall young man,” the clairvoyant was 
saying, “who means much in your life. He is near 
you—either in thought or person.” 

The obvious significance of the reference to Tom 
awakened Lorraine from her introspective dreams. 
She could not withhold a glance over her shoulder, 
and Tom, standing by, was filled with a glow of 
ardent affection by her smile of meaning. 


228 


After the Ball 


This fortune-telling thing was fun, Lorraine de¬ 
cided, even if it were the most apparent nonsense. 
She glanced toward the seeress, with an evanescent 
smile of friendliness. 

“But look!” commanded the seeress. “Look into 
the crystal ball!” 


The pigeons that thronged the public square in the 
heart of the city had long since found resting-place 
in the trees of the park when Arthur Trevelyan, who 
had been wandering aimlessly all through the long 
afternoon, paused at a bench by the side of a foun¬ 
tain and sank upon it. His hand dropped upon a 
newspaper tossed away by a careless lounger. Idly 
he picked it up and in the light of an overhead arc, 
glanced over its pages. 

A face stared up at him from the welter of type. 
It was that of his sister, embellished with the crude 
scrolls of the paper’s “art” department, and cap¬ 
tioned with her name and the phrase: “Aids Or¬ 
phans.” 

Beside it, when his eager eye leaped for an expla¬ 
nation of the publishing of the picture, he saw an ad¬ 
jective-laden account of the annual ball given by 
society leaders as a means of raising charity funds 
for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. 
The particular editor in charge of the edition had 
“played up” the story because of the opportunity it 
had given him to print a pretty face, but of this 
Arthur of course had no inkling. To him the news 


After the Ball 229 

transcended anything of world events that any press 
could print. 

In a paragraph preceded by the sub-heading, 
“Patroness Active,” he saw that for which he was 
seeking. His sister’s name led a subdivision of 
those names which editors so love, from circulation 
points of view, to print. She was credited with 
being chairman of the committee on arrangements. 
What this might mean Arthur had no idea; but the 
significant fact was there: Lorraine actually was 
prominent in the event being given publicity, and 
the ball actually was in progress as he sat reading 
this paper. 

This was enough. Perhaps he might catch a 
glimpse of her. Perhaps he might even steal a word 
or two, if fortune helped him. He knew the 
grounds of the armory. It might be his luck to get 
in touch with her without being noticed by others. 

He rose impulsively from the bench. Transpor¬ 
tation was a minor item. He knew that he could 
walk to the armory before his sister would be leav¬ 
ing. He swung into a rapid pace and at the en¬ 
trance of the park, turned southward. 

Following him, sure that surveillance would de¬ 
velop something of material interest, lurked Mur¬ 
phy. 


“You will be happy in your love. I view an altar 
—a bridal veil. But wait!” 

The exclamation, breaking in upon the profes¬ 
sional patter, roused Lorraine to sharper attention. 
Madame was a good actress, if nothing more. 


230 


After the Ball 


The clairvoyant leaned over the crystal and gazed 
into its depths. Her voice came taut and strained. 
Her hands moved tensely, dramatizing her words. 

“I see trouble—and an unexpected visitor—” 

Involuntarily Lorraine moved forward. Tom’s 
hand rested itself lightly upon her shoulder. A re¬ 
assuring pressure conveyed to her his disbelief in 
such obvious “hokum” of the love-tale teller’s art. 
She glanced upward at him and telegraphed, as only 
lovers can, her accord with his scoffing attitude at 
all this claptrap. 

“I see someone come—as from a grave—” went 
on Madame the seeress. She was well into the 
spirit now, and was drawing upon her imaginative 
resources. 

In spite of herself Lorraine caught her breath. 
Could this woman—was it possible—know any¬ 
thing of her family’s history and be playing upon 
it ? No, that would be too cruel! 

“I see him come,” Madame predicted. “I see a 
death—perhaps a living death. It may be his spirit 
hovers nigh!” 

This was too much! Lorraine rose sharply, shov¬ 
ing back her chair so abruptly that it upset. She 
struggled to regain her composure. 

“Really—I shouldn’t have done this—I don’t be¬ 
lieve in it—but I thank you very much!” 

Tom half led her from the tent. After them the 
novelist watched narrowly, with growing enthusi¬ 
asm at the success of her unplanned maneuver. 

“What a situation that would make,” she told 
herself. “I’ll use it. It builds—it builds! And will 
fit in anywhere!” 


AFTER THE BALL 


A RENCO PRODUCTION 



“I see trouble—and an unexpected visitor—” the seeress told 
















After the Ball 


231 


Hurriedly, forgetting her role as soothsayer, she 
reached for her bag and found the miniature tablet 
that she always kept at hand. Her fingers raced as 
she scribbled the fundamentals of the scene she had 
created. 

Outside the tent, free from the cloying incense 
of burning sandalwood, Lorraine found her breath 
and her self-control. 

“Such silliness,” she exclaimed. “But that wo¬ 
man made me nervous. There was something about 
her—and the things she said!” 

“Just the usual line,” Tom encouraged her. “She 
has a good memory, and remembers what real for¬ 
tune-tellers have sprung on her, that’s all.” 

“But that talk about trouble!” 

“What trouble can there be?” Tom argued. 
“They always tell you that to make you think you’re 
getting your money’s worth.” 

“I suppose so,” Lorraine consented. “But she 
seemed so in earnest.” 

“Of course she was in earnest. Why wouldn’t 
she be? That’s what she’s there for. Besides—” 
here the advocate at the bar abandoned his logic and 
became again the wooer—“besides, didn’t she say 
you would be happy in your love?” 

“That’s so.” Lorraine found refuge in the 
phrase. “Part of what she said surely will come 
true.” 

“That part will, if I have anything to do with 
it,” Tom vowed. “There’s the music—and we 
haven’t had a dance tonight!” 

She turned happily toward him and started to 
place her hand in his. Then— 


232 


After the Ball 


“Oh, Miss Trevelyan!” 

It was a member of the executive committee who 
was speaking. She approached with a sense of her 
importance, and flourished, half chidingly, a paper 
folded in her hand. 

“So sorry to interrupt—but I know you’ll want 
to check this list of music and supplies while the 
men are here.” She nodded to Tom. “I’m sure 
you’re angry with me for taking her away,” she 
apologized. 

“Business before pleasure,” Tom returned, try¬ 
ing to make the best of his reversal. 

“Business—then pleasure,” Lorraine amended, 
with an emphasis that made Tom forget his dis¬ 
gruntled emotions at the interruption. 

He watched after Lorraine as she departed in tow 
of the officious member of the committee. Curious, 
he thought, that she should have been upset by the 
fortune-teller. Still, you never could tell about a 
woman, or what would throw her off her poise. 
And Lorraine had so much of that quality, too. No 
wonder he was head over heels in love with her. 
He was telling himself how lucky he was. 


Outside the armory, in the semi-obscurity of the 
grounds that ran beside a sunken garden, ambled a 
shuffling, hesitating figure. Arthur knew well 
enough that he would not dare approach the ball¬ 
room and seek boldly for his sister. Let alone the 
fact that he could not risk disclosure of his identity, 
his attire precluded entrance into that scene of gay- 
ety and glitter that he glimpsed through the long 


After the Ball 


233 


French windows. Still, if only he might even see 
Lorraine just once, he would be repaid. Tomorrow 
might come the meeting for which he had planned 
so many times. 

He moved from the shadow of a conifer and 
darted across the lawn. Abruptly he halted in the 
refuge of another clump of shrubbery, from which 
he gained a commanding view of the armory drill- 
room and its occupants. Once he thought he saw 
Lorraine passing momentarily in the throng, but he 
could not be sure. 

From the vantage point which Arthur had de¬ 
serted a little before, Murphy watched, puzzled at the 
behavior of his quarry. 

“It’s a queer game he’s playin’,” Murphy told 
himself. “But whatever it is, I’m in on it.” 


CHAPTER XX 


“T)ENNY for your thoughts?” 

* Tom Stevens glanced quickly around at the 
spur of the cooing feminine voice behind him. He 
had been watching the dancers without seeing them. 
The rhythm of the orchestra had been pulsing 
through his mind with the name of Lorraine at¬ 
tuned to it. He turned and saw Gertie Abercrom¬ 
bie, her of the honeyed tongue and the malicious 
mind, smiling at him. 

“You couldn’t buy them for a penny, I’m afraid,” 
he said. 

“Oh, I forgot. How silly of me!” Gertie ex¬ 
claimed. “I should have known that legal brains 
come high.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of law,” Tom replied crypti¬ 
cally, and Gertie caught his meaning. 

“Then I know! One guess?” 

Tom nodded. 

“Lorraine Trevelyan! Am I right?” 

Again Tom nodded. 

“No wonder your thoughts are above price! And 
I’m glad to be able to congratulate you on your good 
fortune in winning her! Oh, I’ve heard! You’re 
not the first man who has tried—” 

Underlying the flow of fulsome compliment with 
which he was being deluged, Tom was aware of a 
feline sharpness. Gertie Abercrombie was a type 


After the Ball 


235 


with which he had come little in contact, and he was 
amazed at the satisfaction she derived from spread¬ 
ing pointless venom. Still, he was too happy to be 
annoyed seriously by the creature. His thoughts 
began to wander as he answered subconsciously in 
polite deference to her presence. 

The tongue clattered on. 

“She’s such an interesting girl! And with such 
varied activities! There’s her work here, and oh, 
so many things! Why, just the other day—” 

And Gertie launched into an enthusiastic account 
of seeing Lorraine at the Toreador in company with 
“the quaintest character, like someone out of a 
book.” Tom only half caught the drift of her re¬ 
marks. That Lorraine, who, as he was indifferently 
aware, did have acquaintances developed as a result 
of the fervor with which she threw herself into char¬ 
ities, and improvements, and other diversions, should 
have met this person of whom Gertie was telling, 
did not occur to him as worthy of comment. But 
the subtle emphasis which the Abercrombie woman 
was placing upon the incident galled. . . . 

He was relieved when he saw Lorraine approach¬ 
ing. 

“I was telling your fiance what a lucky boy he 
is,” Gertie explained when Lorraine joined them. 
“And I think you’re a lucky girl, too!” 

Lorraine acknowledged her good fortune. She 
was anxious to have a few moments with Tom free 
from distractions. 

“Well,” said Gertie, simpering, “three’s a crowd!” 

Tom sighed with relief as Gertie vanished. 


236 


After the Ball 


“Poor man!” Lorraine exclaimed, affectionately. 
“How you must have suffered! At least, I hope 
you weren’t enjoying it. Are you sure—” this in 
mock concern, “that you don’t like her better than 
you do me?” 

Tom fell in with the spirit of her teasing query. 

“I don’t know,” he replied, dubiously. “Some¬ 
body might learn to love her. She’s rather—well, 
tonic.” 

“Oh!” Lorraine failed to note his facetious tone. 

“That is,” Tom hastily amended, “like a bitter 
tonic that makes you enjoy wholesome things the 
more.” 

“That’s nicer,” Lorraine agreed. 

“Seriously,” Tom continued, “I was as lonesome 
without you as an egg without ham. She talked in¬ 
cessantly—mostly about you. Of course, if what 
she said had come from anyone else, I’d have been 
delighted to listen. But such chatter! All about 
your meeting that man at the Toreador, for in¬ 
stance.” 

“She told you that?” 

“Of course. Why not?” 

Lorraine had glanced up, startled, when Tom cas¬ 
ually mentioned the incident at the hotel. Her sharp 
intake of breath betrayed her agitation, and a little 
of her emotion communicated itself to Tom. He 
could not know that he had touched at a vital spot, 
but his curiosity was aroused at her apparent dis¬ 
may. 

“It didn’t mean anything,” Tom continued. “Why 
shouldn’t she have told me?” 


After the Ball 


237 


"Oh, no reason—no reason at all. Only—why, 
I was just surprised that she should even have re¬ 
membered it and thought it worth while repeating.” 

Beneath her flurried thoughts Lorraine was 
stirred by one determination: to avoid, if by any 
possible chance she could do so, lying to Tom about 
Smooth Sullivan and the word he had brought. It 
tortured her even to be evasive and dissembling; 
but the outright falsehood loomed before her as a 
hideous thing to be dodged at any cost. 

Hurriedly she pulled herself together and smiled 
into his face. 

"It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. "Gertie 
probably thought she had a little morsel of gossip, 
that’s all.” 

"Just what you could expect of a girl like that,”. 
Tom answered. "Come, let’s finish this dance.” 

But the ease with which she escaped from a per¬ 
ilous situation came too abruptly, and she was un¬ 
nerved. She passed her hand wearily across her 
forehead. 

"It’s the warm air, I think,” she explained. 
"Can’t we get away from all this crush just for a 
little?” 

Eagerly Tom seized upon her suggestion. He was 
only too glad at the prospect of having Lorraine to 
himself where they would not be interrupted. 

"Of course!” he agreed. "There’s the terrace 
outside.” 

Guiding her through the throng, they made their 
way to the French windows opening upon the ter¬ 
race, and stepped upon the paving. 


238 


After the Ball 


The night air, and the velvet caress of the moon’s 
rays, came in welcome relief to the fevered atmos¬ 
phere of the ball room, and Lorraine, who had been 
lifted to a seat upon the balustrade of the terrace, 
found herself throwing off the blanket of depression 
that had settled upon her in the fortune-teller’s tent. 
Tom was standing close beside her, openly adoring 
her beauty and sweetness. 

“Dear man!” she murmured, gently. “I do love 
you.” 

He looked into her eyes, that had more of the 
mystery of the night in them than all the universe 
that spanned, twinkling, overhead. He read a 
tenderness in their depths which filled him with a 
swirling, tumultuous affection. 

“Really?” he begged. “Truly?” 

She smiled softly in confirmation. 

“Oh, it’s almost too good to be true! I catch 
myself wondering if I’m not in some wonderful 
dream. Tell me again!” 

“I do.” The witchery of the night was shearing 
off the constricting threads that had been tangled 
around her heart, and she could feel herself expand. 

“Only—if only—” He paused to frame his wish. 
“If only we two were away from all the world! 
Would you like it?” 

“Yes,” she breathed. 

“To go away from all this—to have just our¬ 
selves! Not on some silly tropical island, or any¬ 
thing like that. I wish I could take you now to the 
high Sierras—to a mountain-top cabin. . . . 

Where the air is rarer than wine, and the days go by 


After the Ball 


239 


like moments, and the nights bring one nearer to 
the stars—our stars! Would you be happy there?” 

“Yes,” she breathed again. 

“My dearest! It’s all too glorious! Why wait, 
or bother with an elaborate ceremony? We could 
start at once! Steal away from here before we were 
missed, throw some clothing together, find some 
friendly little justice of the peace, and be on the 
road, driving to meet the dawn!” 

“But not tonight! Oh, we couldn’t! What 
would people say?” 

“You know you don’t care what people would 
say! Please! Tell me you will!” 

She was being swept by the fervor of his en¬ 
treaties. It would be so good, so comforting, to 
yield—to allow herself to be carried off her feet— 
to be with him on their mountain-top. . . . 

Abruptly she was marshalling her forces to think 
clearly. She compelled her eyes to leave his, and 
gazed, trying to shape her thoughts, into the garden. 

“Say that you will!” Tom implored again. 

She heard him only faintly. Had he known it, 
he had no need of words to reinforce his plea. Was 
what he asked the wise thing? Or what was wis¬ 
dom, anyway? Or did it matter, so long as they 
were happy? 

She saw a face half masked in the shrubbery be¬ 
yond, and tossed her head to remove from her mind 
its intruding spectacle. The sight persisted. She 
closed her eyes to shut it out, and in the clearer vis¬ 
ion of her mind its features compelled her atten¬ 
tion. She looked again. This time she was sure— 


240 


After the Ball 


as sure as one can be who sees a reality and remains 
convinced that the sight can be only a fantastic men¬ 
tal trick. She stared sharply now. There could be 
no doubt. She was looking, or under the illusion 
that she was looking, at the face of her brother, who, 
her senses told, was three thousand miles away. 

The figure, its dark clothing dimly outlined 
against the darker shrubbery, moved slightly. As 
quickly as it had come before her, the face van¬ 
ished. She was staring, wide-eyed, now, and her 
breath seemed to have been choked within her. Her 
face was contorted with shocked astonishment. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” 

Tom’s question brought her to a semblance of her 
senses. She could not remove this impression that 
she had seen Arthur there in the shadows, but she 
knew, was positive, that this could not be. She 
shook her head. There was a hysterical note in her 
involuntary laughter. Her nerves were playing 
cruel pranks upon her. Again Tom asked the 
cause of her disturbance. 

“I—I think I’ve worked too hard,” she replied. 
“I’ve been on the go too much, I’m afraid.” 

“I know you have, dear,” Tom said. “It’s what 
I’ve been thinking of, and why I’ve wanted to take 
you away. Can’t I do something for you ?” 

“It’s nothing,” Lorraine said. But she needed 
time to think, to be herself again. “Won’t you 
bring me a glass of water ?” 

She placed her hand reassuringly upon his. Anx¬ 
ious at her distress, he hesitated to leave her. 

“Are you sure you’ll be all right ?” he asked. 

“Quite all right.” 


After the Ball 


241 


As he hurried away Lorraine looked again toward 
the shrubbery where the apparition had given her 
such a shock. Now only the outlines of the bush 
were apparent. It was as she had told Tom—she 
had been too much on the go. Perhaps he was 
right. Perhaps she would consent, and go away 
with him. 

“Lorraine—little sister!” 

She felt strong arms clasping her tightly, and a 
face pressed against hers, then hands at her shoul¬ 
ders holding her off at a little distance for inspec¬ 
tion. Before her, this time without doubt or chance 
of illusion, was Arthur—her brother Arthur. 

“Oh-h-h!” It was the sigh of a heart overflowing 
with gladness, rather than an exclamation. Lor¬ 
raine was in ecstasy. She passed her hands over his 
face, as if to assure herself that he was here in the 
flesh. Her throat tightened and she was swallow¬ 
ing to keep down happy tears. She sprang to her 
feet and threw her arms about him, then yielded to 
his crushing embrace. 

They stood so, tightly clasped. They drew apart 
a little, and looked at each other wonderingly. Then 
they were in each other’s arms again. 

“It's you—it’s really you!” 

Lorraine was the first to break the silence. They 
released their arms and stood, hands entwined, for 
a moment. Then volleys of questions, words, ex¬ 
planations, came from each, with each unheedful of 
the other’s reply, each incoherently trying to express 
a part of the happiness of reunion. It was the mo¬ 
ment for which they had lived. 


242 


After the Ball 


“I had to see you,” Arthur gasped. “I got away 
—they’re after me—but I had to see you—” 

In the sunken garden Murphy shifted from one 
foot to the other as he tried to master his astonish¬ 
ment at the actions of the man he had been trailing. 

“Wot t’ell!” he exclaimed, puzzled. 

Brother and sister merged together again in a 
flood of kisses and little love-touches. Lorraine’s 
hands were fluttering over Arthur. Gone from her 
temporarily was thought of Tom Stevens, his sug¬ 
gestion of their elopement, or anything but the fact 
that her brother was here, here! before her. 

At last she rallied her thoughts. 

“But you’re in danger?” 

Arthur nodded, then tried to shield his sister from 
alarm. 

“Not much—if I’m careful. I escaped, you see.” 

“Won’t they trace you?” 

Arthur shook his head. 

“I think not. I’m pretty sure I’ve eluded them. 
But I mustn’t be seen with you. It might cause com¬ 
ment, and suspicion.” 

Lorraine remembered that Smooth Sullivan had 
told her of Arthur’s fear that the Trevelyan family 
would be involved in his prison taint. 

“As if I cared!” she said with high contempt. “It 
wouldn’t matter what was said of us, so long as you 
are free!” 

“It would do no good, dear,” Arthur persuaded. 
“I must meet you secretly for a while.” 

She realized the truth in what he said. 

“Go now, then,” she told him. “Quickly, before 




AFTER THE BALL A RENCO PRODUCTION 

There came the rasp of a chair being shoved across the 
paving. A heavy tread sounded nearby. 







After the Ball 243 

you’re seen. But come to me at home. We’ll find 
a way.” 

She kissed him again, this time in haste lest what 
he feared would come to pass. Her touch upon his 
arm half thrust him away. For a few feet he moved 
reluctantly toward the garden. Then the sway of 
their re-union overpowered him and he turned, 
strode quickly back to her, and folded her again in 
his arms. It was tenderly, beautifully done; the 
high, clear unsullied passion of brother-and-sister 
love. 

There came the rasp of a chair being shoved 
across the paving. A heavy tread sounded nearby. 
A glass crashed upon the stone as it dropped from 
Tom Stevens’ hand. 

“So this,” he remarked bitterly, “is why you sent 
me away!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


T HE tinkle of the shattering goblet as it fell 
from Stevens’ nerveless fingers, reverberated 
through Lorraine’s swimming senses and brought 
cruel realization of the perilous situation in which 
she was placed. With Arthur’s last kiss still tingling 
on her lips, she could only turn a stunned face to 
her fiance as he strode indignantly toward her. She 
could see vaguely that his features were livid with 
quick rage and rising temper. 

“Go! Go!” she whispered to Arthur. 

Trevelyan, impelled by his sister’s thrust, sprang 
over the balustrade. As he landed, catlike, on the 
turf below, he swung around for a fleeting glance 
backward. His sister’s back was turned toward the 
man who had interrupted their meeting; he did not 
recognize in the newcomer’s countenance any sign 
of acquaintance. As he ran toward the sheltering 
shrubbery his mind was turning over in wonder at 
the identity of this man who could speak to Lorraine 
in terms of possession. Then he reached the shad¬ 
ows and hurried lightly to the street. 

Following him, still the stalker of prey, was 
Murphy. 

Lorraine stared fascinated into Tom’s accusing 
eyes. Some faintly stirring portion of her thoughts 
struggled through the blanket of numbed shock to 
suggest to her that this man before her was a 


After the Ball 245 

stranger—that the Tom Stevens she had known was 
gone. 

It was true. The contorted face, the attitude of 
the figure in its repelling stiffness, the tone of in¬ 
dictment in the harshness of Tom’s question, all 
were alien. She shook her head in anticipatory ne¬ 
gation of his next words. 

“Who is he?” Tom demanded. “What is he to 
you?” 

If her emotions before were harrowed, now she 
was being placed upon the rack. The gyves that 
muted her tongue were tortures almost unendurable. 
The crushing knowledge that she could not tell, that 
she must remain silent regarding Arthur’s identity, 
overwhelmed her. She knew what her silence must 
indicate to Tom, yet she could not free herself by 
proving the innocence of Arthur’s kiss. A labyrinth 
of explanations which must inevitably lead to Ar¬ 
thur’s undoing stretched before her; and she could 
only continue to remain quiet. 

Her very anxiety to remove suspicion from Tom’s 
mind, her obvious agitation in her dilemma, shouted 
aloud her guilt. She was aware of this, and auto¬ 
matically became more flustered. It is only the prac¬ 
ticed deceiver who maintains an air of ease. 

“Who was that man?” Tom repeated. 

“He’s nobody—that is—” 

“Nobody!” 

“Nobody that matters, I mean.” 

“What! When I’ve just seen him holding you in 
his arms?” 

“Well, I—I—” 

Tom’s temper was changing from that of white- 


246 


After the Ball 


hot iron to the deceptive leaden hue that masks the 
heat in the metal. He was growing conscious of 
the violation of his rights. He felt himself out¬ 
raged. 

“You kissed him!” he charged. 

“There wasn’t anything wrong—please!” she 
begged. 

“Then why did he run away?” 

Why, indeed? How could she answer? She 
glanced toward the direction in which Arthur had 
disappeared, as if to summon aid from him. She 
was in an impasse. Her eyes were pleading for 
mercy, for an end to the inquisition, but Tom was 
hard, determined now, and did not notice the tears 
glistening on the lashes that fringed her eyes. 

“Why did he run away if there was nothing 
wrong ?” 

“He had to!—oh, I can’t tell you! Please don’t 
ask!” 

“Not ask! And let it go without a word?” 

She nodded. 

“But that’s'ridiculous! Why can’t you tell me?” 

“I—can’t—” 

“But why?” 

“Because—” 

“That’s not a reason. Tell me!” 

“No. I can’t!” 

A repeated demand was poised on Tom’s lips. 
He repressed it. He regarded her grimly. As with 
her a little while before, so now she seemed to him 
to be a stranger, so quickly can one’s point of view to 
another change. He hesitated—was about to yield 
for the moment. Then a devil whispered in his ear 


After the Ball 


247 


and the words of Gertie Abercrombie came back to 
him—double-pronged forks of venom putting barbs 
on the innuendos Gertie had strewn with her treacle 
sweetness. 

His expression changed. Before he had been the 
indignant suitor, the lover whose armor of dignity 
had been pierced; now he was the jealous male ready 
to find a rival in any masculine form. 

His eyes narrowed. He knew that what he was 
about to say was unworthy, but relished the shame 
of their significance. 

“Then it is true—what Gertie Abercrombie 
hinted! Your friend at the Toreador—no wonder 
you were upset at being seen with him!” 

“Oh! Oh, no! Not that!” 

Lorraine recoiled with revulsion at the construc¬ 
tion he was placing on the Sullivan episode. The 
blood leaped to her face. It was as if she were 
being exposed, ungarmented. 

“How can you say that? Oh! It isn’t true! 
It isn’t! Not that, anyway!” 

“What else do you want me to think?” 

“Anything but that! Tom, how could you? You 
say you love me! And then suggest—oh, it’s hor¬ 
rible! It isn’t true! Please believe me!” 

The genuineness of her tone broke down a little 
of Tom Stevens’ sureness. He was eager to find 
any foundation for a‘ belief that she was not per¬ 
fidious. 

“I want to believe you!” he begged. “I want to 
think you love me too much to—to—well, to do 
that! But how can I?” 


248 After the Ball 

“You can! You must! Tom! You must be¬ 
lieve me!” 

“Then why won’t you tell me?” 

A merry-go-round of questions, getting nowhere. 
She shook her head again. 

“If you’ll only give me some explanation! Any¬ 
thing—anything at all to make me feel sure!” 

Poor egotistic male, seeking to buttress his self¬ 
esteem by a few words from the same person in 
whom, in herself, he could not place implicit faith. 

“If there’s nothing wrong about it, as you say, 
why can’t you tell me?” 

Why? Why? His incessant “why”! How could 
she meet it? 

“I can’t, Tom, I tell you! I simply can’t! At 
least, now! Please wait until I can! Later, Tom!” 

“Later? Not now? You wish me to wait, with 
this thing torturing me?” 

“Oh, please, please—yes!” 

Her plea for time was misconstrued. It seemed 
evident that she sought only for an interval in which 
to concoct some plausible explanation of the kiss. 
Meanwhile, he could go around being tortured! 
Like all men, he began to feel a flood of self-pity 
welling up within him. 

It was too much! She was asking the impossible! 
Ask any man—she was being unfair. 

His own nerves were being put through excep¬ 
tional stress, and he too broke under the emotional 
storm. 

“It’s hopeless!” he declared. “It’s no use! You 
must think I—I—why, you must think I’m a jelly¬ 
fish, and not a man! Here you were, letting an- 


After the Ball 


249 


other man kiss you, and hold you, and kissing him, 
and you ask me to wait! I’m a fool even to discuss 
it with you! You say you can’t tell me—” 

“Not now, Tom!” she interrupted. 

“You can’t, because you know there isn’t any¬ 
thing for you to say!” 

“You’re unjust—” 

“ ‘Unjust’! Then what are you? Are you being 
fair? Asking me to wait! Why can’t you tell me, 
if you haven’t anything to hide?” 

The same unanswerable query! That was just 
it—that she did have something to hide, even if in 
the hiding she brought down upon herself all the 
stigma which his questions indicated. 

Her head dropped with fatigue. Better his be¬ 
lief that his suspicions were justified, than a con¬ 
tinuation of this ordeal! There had been too much 
strain. 

Tom paused for breath. The brief interlude 
brought courage to her. She looked him in the 
face, and sadly, wearily, she faced the issue. She 
asked: 

“You won’t trust me?” 

Tom shrugged his shoulders. 

“How can I ? It’s so obvious. I find you in the 
act—and you won’t explain. What could you ex¬ 
plain?” 

She caught her breath. There was a giddy emo¬ 
tion as of rushing madly toward the brink of a 
precipice. Soon the crash must come. The gallop¬ 
ing words swirled her onward. 

“You won't have faith in me? You mean that?” 

Again the shrug. 


250 


After the Ball 


The precipice. The brink. The galloping feet, 
carrying her onward—over— 

The instinct of self-preservation. The last de¬ 
spairing effort to thwart her own involuntary proc¬ 
esses sweeping her to destruction. 

“You still demand that I tell? You won’t—take 
my word?” 

His steady gaze—implacable, dour, relentless. 

The dreadful finality of it all. 

Through the windows the sound of the orchestra. 
The languorous rhythm of a waltz. “Auf Wieder- 
sehen.” The irony of coincidence. 

She looked at him a moment; this man who so 
short a time before was so close and dear to her— 
now, still dear, but so foreign and strange. Her 
eyes dropped. A stabbing glint, coldly crystalline 
as the moon’s rays which it reflected, came from the 
diamond which had signified their engagement. 

Now it was a mockery. Disillusion shimmered in 
the brilliancy of the gem. If he could not love her 
enough to believe in her on fiat—why, he could not 
really love her at all. So she reasoned. She did not 
know that love is a thing not circumscribed by logic. 

Her fingers tendril-like entwined around the plat¬ 
inum band. Slowly, painfully, as if the flesh were 
reluctant to release the symbol, she drew the ring 
from her finger. Her face was turned away as she 
handed it gropingly toward Tom. 

“My dear! My dear!” 

His imploring words brought no response. Her 
outstretched hand was stiff, unflexed with deter¬ 
mination. 


After the Ball 251 

“Lorraine ! Honey girl! Don’t let’s do this! Tell 
me all about it.” 

She shook her head with a purposeful, sinking 
knowledge of conclusion. 

“Won’t you give in, dear? I would—I would 
gladly—but I can’t.” 

Blindly her hand motioned, holding out the ring. 

He stared dully at the gleaming stone. His hand 
semi-consciously wrapped around it. He weighed 
it, tossing it in his palm, as if appraising its signif¬ 
icance, then dropped it carelessly into a pocket. 

Lorraine’s head drooped forward. All she wanted 
now was that he go—go before her anguish tore her 
past toleration. 

He regarded her sharply. In her attitude he 
could only see determination, hardness. It seemed 
that she had welcomed this denouement, in order 
that she might be able to meet, unrestricted by other 
obligation, this man whom he had seen running 
through the garden. 

His body stiffened. Very well, came the thought. 
If that were what she wished, she should have it! 
He grew sullen with the bitter soreness of his heart. 
Stiffly he bowed his head in acquiescence, then 
turned on his heel. . . 

A few feet away the veneer of polish asserted 
itself. He was punctilious in the intonation of his 
words as he asked: 

“May I take you home ?” 

“No—no, thanks,” she replied dispiritedly. “I’ll 
call father.” 


252 


After the Ball 


“Very well,” he replied, formally. So this was 
an end to it. He stalked away, his body muscles 
rigid. He did not look backward, though if he had, 
Lorraine would not have seen. She was sitting, 
a stricken, broken-hearted person, with her face 
buried in her hands and her eyes burning for the 
relief of tears that now strangely would not come. 


CHAPTER XXII 


tXTHEN events “happen” in such wise that they 
* * startle us by their unexpected bearing upon the 
moment, some call them remarkable coincidences. 
Others, perhaps with more insight, ascribe them to 
the workings of an inscrutable Fate . >. . 

There was a strand, apparently with loose end 
neglected in the pattern of the cloth, which the 
Weaver at the Loom had been reserving until its 
time should come. The thread, a brilliant fibre 
against its duller background, was being used again. 
It wandered in the meshes of the tapestry; and back 
and forth, upward—upward again—and down, the 
Weaver’s fingers passed. The picture grew. The 
inchoate figures took on form. . . . 

Which is to say that Tom Stevens glanced up¬ 
ward, roused from his abstraction, as he heard a 
rapping at his office door. Hastily he thrust into 
an open desk drawer a photograph of Lorraine. He 
closed the drawer and swung in his chair toward the 
door. 

An attendant, in the uniform of a state employe 
of the District Attorney’s office, stood in the aper¬ 
ture. 

“There’s a lady to see you, sir,” the attendant 
said. 

Tom nodded his willingness to be seen. The at¬ 
tendant stepped from sight. Suddenly Tom’s pulses 


254 


After the Ball 


pounded with the thought that possibly—miracle of 
miracles!—Lorraine might have come to the moun¬ 
tain, since the mountain could not come to her. His 
fists clenched the arms of his chair and he waited, 
tense. 

He heard the knob of the door rattle and the 
attache say: “Step in, Miss.” 

Steeling himself to a casual motion, Tom turned 
his chair to face the door. He raised his eyes from 
the trial transcript which he had picked up to con¬ 
trol his trembling hands, and forced himself to look 
toward his visitor. There was nothing in his face 
to show his hope that he might see Lorraine framed 
in the doorway. 

Instead, a young woman whom he had not seen 
before looked at him in inquiry. Absently he noted 
the prettiness of her face, the aureole of light that 
was caught in her fair hair, the hint of tragedy in 
her attractive eyes. By her side, holding her hand 
in frightened uncertainty, was a young child; a 
little girl of four or five, whose face epitomized the 
blonde prettiness of the woman who so evidently 
was her mother. 

“The District Attorney?” the visitor asked. 

“Chief Deputy,” Tom replied. “Won’t you be 
seated?” 

The young woman found a chair beside Tom’s 
desk and placed herself, with an arm around the 
youngster, who gazed with round-eyed gravity at 
Tom. He glanced at the mother, then at the little 
girl, confirmed his opinion of their relationship, then 
back at the mother. 


After the Ball 255 

“What can I do for you?” came his words at 
length. 

“The Social Service Bureau sent me—I’m a ste¬ 
nographer—I was told you needed one.” 

“Yes—I need a secretary.” Tom was recalled 
rudely from his ephemeral dreams to the prac¬ 
ticalities of the moment. “I asked for a young wo¬ 
man who must be expert in her work, but more than 
that, one who knows how to keep confidences, and 
use discretion. Do you think you can meet those 
requirements ?” 

“I have learned to be discreet—and I am keep¬ 
ing confidences,” the applicant responded. “And— 
I need a position badly.” 

“You are married?” The question was pointed 
by Tom’s glance at the youngster. 

“Yes—this is my daughter, Eve.” 

“And your husband?” 

“He is dead.” 

There was a catch in her voice as she spoke which 
belied the matter-of-factness with which the job¬ 
seeker tried to answer. But bravely she continued: 

“There are just ourselves—that is why I need the 
work, you see.” 

Tom found himself being impelled to sympathy 
for the applicant—an emotion which he could not 
detach from his effort to being abstractly business¬ 
like. 

“Yes, I see—did you tell me your name?” 

“It is Gay—Mrs. Gilda Gay.” 

Beneath the obvious theatricality of the allitera¬ 
tion stirred a hint of fleeting memory that some- 


256 


After the Ball 


where Tom had heard this name before; but it was 
only a hint, and he brushed it aside as one of de¬ 
ceptive familiarity because of its trite glitter. After 
all, he pondered, people sometimes do have names 
even more absurd than those of the stage. He was 
trying to assure himself that his prospective secre¬ 
tary would be a satisfactory one, and at the same 
time to avoid the humiliating catechism that he 
knew was the accepted formula between employer 
and work-hunter. 

“I should like to consider you for the work—but 
isn’t it rather difficult for you ? I mean, how do you 
expect to manage for your daughter?” 

“That’s just it—that’s why the Social Service 
people sent me.” The response was eager. “They 
know that I’ve arranged with a neighbor to take 
care of my little girl while I’m at work. I could 
promise that I would be efficient—and not let my 
difficulties interfere with the work.” 

The evident necessity that prompted the girl’s 
answers to his questions brought an increasing in¬ 
terest in her application. It might be taking a 
chance, he thought. Still—he looked toward the 
little girl, who was continuing to gaze at him with 
the serious, steadfast candor of childhood. He saw 
in Eve’s face something—a tilt to the nose, an elu¬ 
sive expression around the eyes, that reminded him 
ridiculously of Lorraine. 

“Do you think you would like to have your 
mother work for me?” he asked her. 

Eve nodded gravely. 

“If my muvver says so,” Eve replied. “My 
rnuvver knows best ’bout ev’thing.” 


After the Ball 


257 


“That is an endorsement,” Tom laughed. Some¬ 
how he was feeling a warmth that was throwing 
off the sense of emptiness he had borne ever since 
the night of the dance. He smiled encouragingly 
at Gilda. 

“Do you mind a test?” he asked. 

“Of course not,” she returned. “Do you wish to 
dictate ?” 

In answer he reached toward his desk, where a 
stenographic notebook had been discarded by his 
former assistant. Methodically he placed the im¬ 
plements of her craft before her, but as she started 
to take them up, she found her arms occupied with 
the burden of Eve. For the moment she became 
confused and made little futile gestures. 

Tom noticed. 

“Let me,” he offered, and held out his hands to¬ 
ward Eve. The baby hesitated and then impulsively 
came to a decision. She stepped from her mother’s 
side, placed her tiny hands in Tom’s, allowed her¬ 
self to be lifted to his lap, and wriggled into a com¬ 
fortable position. 

Gilda beamed in grateful acknowledgment of his 
consideration and opened the notebook. She waited, 
with pencil poised. 

“Let me see,” Tom began. “This work isn’t of 
ordinary commercial nature, you know. Suppose 
I read to you from some legal matter—it will be 
harder, with technical terms, but—” 

“I am prepared for those,” Gilda responded. 

“Then here—” 

He glanced at his desk-top, but the plate-glass 
surface was free of anything that would serve as 


258 


After the Ball 


guide for dictation. His hand stretched toward a 
drawer. He pulled it open. Underneath the por¬ 
trait of Lorraine that he had hidden hurriedly away, 
he groped for a sheaf of transcript. 

A quick intake of breath distracted him and he 
looked up curiously. Gilda, her gaze riveted upon 
the photograph, was biting her lips in an involun¬ 
tary attempt to check an exclamation. When she 
grew aware that Tom had noticed her surprise at 
seeing the photograph she blushed. The flood of 
crimson, marvelously enhancing her beauty, went 
unnoticed. Tom was wondering at her agitation, 
and Gilda was realizing that on the verge of obtain¬ 
ing a position, her blunder had betrayed her into 
an indiscretion that might thwart her. 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she apologized. “I didn’t mean 
to be rude—but it came so suddenly! I used to 
know her—the girl in the picture.” 

It was Tom’s turn to show surprise. 

“You did?” he asked. Loverlike, though he had 
persuaded himself that there was no future for him 
with Lorraine, he was anxious to find anything on 
which to pin mention of her. 

“Did you know—Miss Trevelyan well?” 

The name broke down Gilda’s reticence. She 
could not dissemble, though she was tempted to 
evade the question by admitting merely a slight ac¬ 
quaintance. It would not do to deceive, she feared; 
and without inkling of what relationship her pros¬ 
pective employer might bear to the Trevelyan fam¬ 
ily, she added: 

“I was her brother’s wife.” 

“Not really!” 


After the Ball 


259 


It was too astounding. Tom knew, of course, of 
the history of Arthur Trevelyan’s marriage—his 
disinheritance, and “death” in the East—but that 
this girl—Arthur’s wife—after a span of years 
should appear—should come to him, of all persons— 
—was too remarkable almost for credence. Quickly 
he questioned her, bearing upon the details as he 
remembered Lorraine had told them; her narration 
of the essential facts checked minutely with his in¬ 
formation. 

“It takes my breath away!” he told her. “It’s 
hard to realize, meeting you this way.” 

“You knew my husband, then?” 

“I never met him,” Tom replied. “But I often 
have heard his family speak—of him.” 

He hesitated. You see, he reminded himself, he 
hardly could explain how closely he was on terms, 
or had been, with the Trevelyans. 

“You knew—my husband was dead?” 

Tom bowed. 

“I met Miss Trevelyan—and her father—after 
his death. We were in Europe when the word 
came.” 

“In Europe!” Gilda gasped. “Then—his family 
—the funeral—didn’t they help?” 

“They helped,—yes,” Tom informed her. “But 
there had been too much delay in reaching them. 
He was buried before they returned to America.” 

“Then—he was all alone?” 

This was all news to Gilda—something of which 
she had never been able to learn. 

“Why, yes. There was no trace of his wife—” 
The idea struck home to Tom with force. “Look 


260 


After the Ball 


here! What became of you ? I’ve heard them often 
wonder. Why, they hunted everywhere for you— 
and could get no word. Where did you go ? Why 
haven’t you gone to them?” 

“Go to them? Go to his family! Never!” 

Her vehemence came like a sudden shock. 

“But why? They searched—they tried to help.” 

“ ‘Help’! Help! They tried to help too late!” 
Gilda’s words were dyed with bitterness. “The 
help should have come before he was killed—oh! 
It was he who needed their help—I want none of 
it!” 

“But—” 

“Oh, you don’t understand!” she protested. “The 
boy was not bad—not vicious—just the result of his 
own father’s mistakes. And he was so lovable! 
And then to have him—you know how he was— 
how he died?” 

Tom nodded. 

“The papers lied! I know it! I know he was 
desperately in need of money—but he wasn’t a 
thief! If his father had helped him then! But no! 
Instead he was stony, iron-hearted.” 

“But at least you could have met the family on 
their return,” Tom still insisted. 

“I couldn’t! I wasn’t able to do so, even if I had 
wished! Why, I nearly died myself!” 

“What!” 

“I wish I had! At least, I wished so then! 
Now, it’s different, with Eve. But then! I learned 
of it the morning after he was killed—I started to 
go to him—and then later—days and days later, I 


After the Ball 261 

found myself in a hospital, and they told me what 
had happened.” 

Vividly she sketched what she could tell of the 
automobile accident which had kept her unconscious 
during the crucial interval. Tom’s expression 
changed again, and once more he was conscious of 
this deep sympathy for Arthur Trevelyan’s wife. 

“Why, the poor kid!” he exclaimed to himself. 

Her voice was gentler now. 

“When I left the hospital he had been buried. I 
went—once—to his grave—the people showed me 
where it was—I wanted only to get away—from 
everything-^” 

“But how did you manage? How did you live?” 
His words were, comfortingly soft and considerate 
in pitch. 

“There was just a little money left—the last he 
had, and he gave it to me the last time I saw him. 
My Arthur! Just that, and a few keepsakes—but 
later—I lost those. And then, after the hospital 
there was the show business again—I got along, 
somehow—I guess most people just do get along— 
somehow.” 

Her voice dwindled down to muteness. 

“What happened then?” 

“Well—after a while—I couldn’t work any more. 
But I had made friends with a nurse in the hospital. 
She helped me. And then there was Eve.” 

The youngster in Tom’s lap stirred restlessly 
when she heard her name. 

“Here’s I, Muvver,” she announced. 

“Yes, dear, there you are,” Gilda reassured the 
baby. “I don’t know why I called her Eve.” Her 


262 


After the Ball 


thoughts took the tangent without pause. She was 
speaking without restraint, unbosoming her words 
with all the sense of freeing herself from these 
things which she had kept restrained, locked up, for 
these long years. 

“I guess it was because the name was short—and 
plain and honest. Not like mine—not with a lot of 
frills.” 

“You have a name that sounds like you,” Tom 
observed. He meant it in kindly way. 

“Yes—like the stage—” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean that way! I meant—” 

“Oh, I know! But that’s how it sounds; and 
when Eve was born, I wanted to keep her away 
from all that—the theater—jazz—night parties— 

“I studied—I worked hard—so that I could take 
care of her without having her grow up in road¬ 
show hotel rooms, and a theatrical trunk for her 
home—and picking up her education from some 
ham actor—” 

Gilda paused in her narrative and glanced around 
the room. Its business-like air, the suggestion of 
activity, of importance, of functioning as a well- 
oiled machine, was in welcome contrast to all that 
she had been describing of the theatrical world. 

“And now I want to work for you,” she con¬ 
cluded simply, “so here I am.” 

Tom regarded her tentatively. He had been 
stirred, deeply so, by her words, and compelled to 
an admiring pity at the fight she had put up against 
the world. It was the harshness of this phase of it 
that made him ask: 


After the Ball 


263 


“Surely there’s no need of your suffering hard¬ 
ship? The Trevelyans, I know, would gladly be 
of assistance.” 

“No—no! Never that! Not—from them!” 

“But what about the baby?” 

“Let them have anything to do with her? With 
my Eve? No! No! She’s mine—she’s part of 
me—and before my Arthur died they’d have noth¬ 
ing to do with me. Now they shan’t have anything 
to do with her!” 

“But won’t you let me tell them about you—let 
them know of the baby?” 

“I couldn’t! If you did, they’d come after her, 
and then I’d have to run away. I—I don’t want to 
run away from things.” 

Perforce he must do as she asked; her ultimatum 
left no alternative. Hers was the human side of the 
matter, he saw clearly. And yet, as he held the baby 
in his arm, he twinged with the sharp pain of knowl¬ 
edge that Eve, and Arthur Trevelyan, and the sister, 
Lorraine, were all in the same blood-bond. It was 
with keen poignancy that he pressed his hand where 
it lay on Eve’s chubby knee. 

The baby, roused by the pressure, sensed some¬ 
thing of the tenderness Tom felt for her. She 
glanced up at his face and studied it meditatively; 
then reached upward and drew her hand across his 
cheek caressingly. The next moment she had with¬ 
drawn her hand quickly, and made a little moue of 
distaste; his half-day’s growth of unshaven beard 
had scratched her flesh. 

“He’s got stickles over him,” she informed Gilda. 


264 


After the Ball 


Still holding the baby in his arms, Tom arose 
from his chair. He smiled reassuringly to Gilda, 
and said: 

“You know your own way best—of course, I’ll 
say nothing to the family.” 

“Oh, please, please don’t,” Gilda begged. She 
too had risen. Then: 

“And the position?” 

“I’d forgotten all about it,” Tom replied. “That 
is, I’ve decided long ago that you’re the one person 
in the world I wish to have working with me. You 
can start tomorrow ?” 

“Tomorrow morning,” Gilda promised. She took 
the baby from Tom’s arms and placed Eve on her 
feet. They started toward the door. 

“Don’t forget to say good-bye,” was Gilda’s 
warning as they reached the doorway. 

“Goo’-bye,” the baby lisped, “I glad to met you.” 

“It has been my gladness,” Tom returned in all 
seriousness. Eve ducked her head with gravity, and 
then, with her mother, was gone. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


r | 'HE reading lamp near a window of Lorraine 

A Trevelyan’s boudoir shone like a friendly bea¬ 
con across the grounds of the Trevelyan home. Ex¬ 
cept for its welcoming beam the house was in dark¬ 
ness, It was late. Only a shaded illumination from 
what Arthur Trevelyan knew to be the servants’ 
quarters gave sign of other life in the residence. 

For weeks Arthur had been waiting for this op¬ 
portunity to approach Lorraine. Vainly at various 
times he had employed ruses by which he thought 
to elude the vigilance of Murphy; but each attempt 
had brought only failure; and sooner or later, in 
each effort he had found Murphy close behind him. 

This time, so far as he could tell after a long 
circuitous journey in which he had hoped to throw 
Murphy off the trail, the coast was clear. He moved 
from the protection of the pine trees along the drive 
and came to a position beneath the window. 

He groped downward to the gravel path and 
grasped a handful of pebbles. The tinkling impact 
upon the pane following his motion told him that 
his aim was correct. He waited a moment, and 
tossed another pebble. 

This time there was the grating of a window- 
sash in opening, and the figure of Lorraine, in negli¬ 
gee, was silhouetted against the light. 

Hoarsely he whispered her name. “It’s Arthur,” 
he called in muffled tones. 


266 


After the Ball 


“Oh! One minute.” 

Her figure disappeared, and then threw another 
shadow when she returned. 

“Here!” she warned. Her outstretched arm was 
holding something small and white. She released it, 
and it came fluttering toward the ground. 

Eagerly Arthur grasped the object she had 
dropped. In his hands he discovered one of Lor¬ 
raine’s handkerchiefs, one end knotted into a latch¬ 
key. 

“Quick! The front way!” she told him, and Ar¬ 
thur, moving cautiously, hurried toward the door. 

At the entrance of the Trevelyan grounds one 
who had been watching shifted his position. 

“Huh!” soliloquized Murphy. “I didn’t think 
he had it in him! An inside job, an’ the frail 
framin’ it for him! An’ him tryin’ to swing it with¬ 
out me!” 

A transient tinge of memory passed through Ar¬ 
thur’s mind as he fitted the key into the door and 
turned the latch. How many times, he remembered, 
he had eased himself into the house, hoping not to 
be heard by his father! How conditions were 
changed! Now he was a fugitive, afraid even to 
enter his own home publicly! But as the door gave 
to his pressure, memories were forgotten in his 
eagerness to rejoin Lorraine. He stepped rapidly 
inside, leaving the door ajar. 

Lorraine was there waiting, standing with out¬ 
stretched arms near the head of the stairs. There 
was a quick embrace, and then, each filled with 
emotion to overflowing, they moved toward her 


After the Ball 267 

room. A moment more, and they were behind the 
sheltering safety of her boudoir. 

Meanwhile Murphy, skulking to the entrance to 
the house, regarded the opened door speculatively. 

“He’s a wise kid at that,” Murphy decided. 
“Leaves the door open for a quick getaway.” 

Upon the divan where Lorraine and Arthur had 
found seats, the two sat for a moment in a silent 
ecstasy of reunion. His arms were around her, and 
she, seated beside him with her shoulders turned so 
that she faced him, lay in the strong support of their 
cradling embrace. His body swayed from side to 
side, cuddling her. 

“My big brother!” she murmured. “B'ack home! 
My big brother!” 

“Oh, Lorry! Lorry! You don’t know! It’s 
been so long!” 

“I know.” 

“The time I’ve waited—the days, and months, 
and years—waiting. My God! The waiting! Wait¬ 
ing there in that prison!” 

“My poor big brother!” 

“And all the time wondering, and being afraid—” 

So they talked; and presently, after their hunger 
for each other had been lulled to a tranquil breath¬ 
ing-space, and after each had asked and answered 
the dear, inconsequential questions about each other, 
their thoughts recurred to the present. It was Ar¬ 
thur who spoke. 

“Tell me, dear, about your engagement—I saw 
in a paper the other day—it was some society gos¬ 
sip—tell me, have you broken it off ?” 


268 


After the Ball 


She did hope that Arthur would not have known 
of the unfortunate conclusion to her romance with 
Tom. She had supposed that Arthur never need 
learn of this. 

She summoned a smile that he did not see was 
forced, and spoke brightly of the matter. It would 
never do for Arthur to have an inkling of the fact 
behind the disruption of her happiness—that it had 
been Arthur who, however innocently, had been the 
cause primarily for the broken engagement. 

She brushed her hand to his lips to silence his 
questions, and replied: 

“Don’t think of that—we just weren’t suited for 
each other. We found it out in time, and like sen¬ 
sible folk, admitted it. That’s all there is to it.” 

But despite her words, she felt a sadness—the 
same sadness that had kept with her the watches of 
the night, when for hours she had lain awake and 
unhappily lived again in the disastrous moments of 
her crash with Tom. . . . 

She tossed her head to shake away her thoughts. 
As if supplying a happy ending to her brief dismissal 
of her love-story, she added: 

“Now I have you again!” 

“And I have you!” Arthur’s response arose. 

Questions again. What about Father? Was he 
as stern as ever? No, Dad had changed greatly. 
Poor Dad—he has grieved greatly over Arthur’s 
death—why could he not know the truth? Well— 
later, probably; right now there were several reasons 
why— And what ever became of the old crowd? 
Has she heard anything of them? And Dumplings 
is the proud mother of twins, and Lorraine doesn’t 


After the Ball 269 

see much of them any more, and Harry is a settled, 
serious, bachelor. Until— 

“But what are you going to do ? Where will you 
live? Are you comfortable where you are? Won’t 
you need things?” 

The fine forgetfulness of danger in the joy of the 
moment was manifest in his reply. 

“Oh, you mustn’t worry about me,” he told her. 
“I’ll be all right.” 

“But you’ll need money. Wait—” 

The thought of material necessities brought her 
to her feet. She rose quickly, crossed to her dresser, 
pulled open a drawer, and groped inside it. When 
her hand emerged it was holding a small, exquisitely 
enameled jewel-case. She carried the miniature 
strong-box with her as she returned and resumed 
her seat beside him. 

“See, big boy! I haven’t any cash—you know 
how Dad insists on my having charge accounts 
everywhere—but if these will help you—” 

She drew the graceful strands of a pearl necklace 
from the box, and two or three platinum and dia¬ 
mond rings lay in her palm. 

“Here, dear—take them. I don’t need them— 
truly. I never wear a thing like those.” 

He shook his head. 

“No, Lorry. I—can’t.” 

“Why, dearest? There’s nothing of mine to which 
you’re not welcome.” 

“I know, little Lorry. It isn’t that. But, but— 
you see, I’ve had plenty of time—in there —to real¬ 
ize how foolish and weak I was. If I hadn’t been 


270 


After the Ball 


so willing to take things that were offered to me— 
well, I just can’t.” 

“But surely this is different! It’s just to help you 
get on your feet. To give you a start, until you 
can build yourself up—somewhere—and be secure 
again.” 

“That’s just it, dear. I can't build myself up 
'somewhere’ and be secure. I’ve learned. I know. 
I’ve been with men, men like this one with whom I 
escaped, and I know it can’t be done.” 

“What can’t be done ?” Her question was fearful, 
as if she felt this new happiness of hers about to be 
taken from her. 

“You can’t build up unless you’ve got a founda¬ 
tion. I—Lorry, I hate to tell you this—but I’m go¬ 
ing back!” 

“ Back —back to that place ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Arthur—how can you? Go back and face all 
that misery, and torture again?” 

“I’ve got to. I must. No matter what I did, or 
how well I got along, all the time I was hiding away 
somewhere I’d have the dread of being found out. 
It would be hanging over me, and worse than the 
prison itself. I’ve seen. In these last few days— 
with these crooked people I’ve had to live with— 
I’ve heard enough . . . . No, Lorry. I had 

to see you! I had to come back home—but it won’t 
work.” 

“But what will you do ?” 

“Just go back—and finish my sentence. Then I 
can start building.” 


After the Ball 


271 


The logic of his words was apparent, but their 
very finality made her willing to use any argument 
to keep him from carrying out such a harrowing 
program. 

“Dear, do you really mean that?” 

“Yes, Lorry.” 

“There’s nothing I can say— Oh, you know 
how much I would love to have you near me—even 
if you did have to be careful about seeing me.” 

“Nothing, dear. I’ve got to.” 

She played her trump card. 

“There’s something else—before you do as you 
say.” 

Curiously he watched as she rose again from his 
side. This time she moved to a cedar-chest in a 
corner of the room and produced a small, compactly 
wrapped bundle. He met her at the table. Slowly, 
with a sense of the importance of what she was 
about to do, she placed the bundle on the table, and 
with Arthur standing beside her, began to unwrap it. 

The little baby smock which Smooth Sullivan had 
brought to her was at the top of the heap of care¬ 
fully folded garments. She picked it up, handled it 
tenderly, fingered the trace of embroidery, and 
placed it to one side. 

Arthur’s face was a study of astonishment and 
wonder. He looked inquiringly at her. Her eyes 
met his for a moment, and then she resumed her 
exhibition of the articles. The pair of toe-scuffed 
shoes came next. She lifted them from the table, 
holding them by their tops, and held them out to 
him. His outstretched hand received them, and she 


272 


After the Ball 


dropped them into it, where they stood on their 
tiny soles on his trembling palm. 

He stared in growing wonder at the strangeness 
of her actions. He looked at the shoes as if to see 
explanation stitched into their seams. Then he 
glanced back again at her. 

Steadily she regarded him for a moment, and her 
lips parted. She breathed, rather than asked: 

“Did you know? Were you ever told?” 

He could only shake his head dumbly and echo 
her question. She continued : 

“Did you know of Gilda—and the baby?” 

The momentous news in her question swept him 
off his feet. The pulsing artery in his neck throbbed 
violently for what seemed an hour before he could 
frame a reply. Then it was to ask: 

“Hers?” 

Lorraine nodded in confirmation. The thoughts 
were not coherent now, but were kaleidoscopic, 
jumbled—like ice-floes bobbing up and down, jos¬ 
tling, rushing, in a torrent. Hers. Gilda’s. The 
baby’s. The shoes absorbed him. They were so 
tiny—so—so. He could not fix them in his mind. 
And then the thought: 

“Ours!” 

The word seemed to crash through his mind with 
its significance. 

“Ours?” 

This time he repeated it as a question, and Lor¬ 
raine nodded again. The sound of the word was 
comforting and he played with it on his tongue. 

“Ours—our baby.” 


After the Ball 


273 


It was too virile a realization for him to bear with 
composure. Blindly, with the tears coming un¬ 
ashamed, he turned to Lorraine and rested his bulk 
heavily upon her, with his arms thrown over her, 
and his face buried in her hair. She stood there for 
a moment, and then bore him back to his seat upon 
the divan. . . . 

But moments passed, and the balsam of time 
brought respite from his anguish of spirit. Her 
hand paused in its act of stroking his hair, and she 
glanced at the jewelled watch upon her wrist. Her 
gasp of dismay roused him from his revery. 

“It’s late,” she told him. “Dad will soon be com¬ 
ing home.” 

“I must run now, then,” he agreed. “I’ll come 
again as soon as the coast is clear.” 

“Arthur, promise me! You won’t—you wouldn’t 
think of going back to—that place—without letting 
me know ahead of time ?” 

“Oh, Lorraine! Don’t you see? How can I go 
back now ?” 

She saw. She knew what was in his mind, and 
what he was next going to say. It was that for 
which she had hoped when she showed him the 
baby’s clothes. But she concealed her wile. 

“You’re—not going!” Her tone of voice exulted. 

“I can’t! It’s impossible—now! I’ve got to find 
her first—find her and the baby. I’ve got to keep 
hidden, until I can find them, and take care of them. 
Why, she may be in want—destitute—” 

“And I’ll help you hunt! I have, already, but I 
didn’t know where to begin—” 


274 


After the Ball 


“Neither do I, but I’ll find out. Then, when I’ve 
located them, I can finish up my term while you’re 
looking out for them— Will you?” 

“I will—I will.” 

She clasped his hand in token of her promise. 
Her fingers felt the fuzzy fringe that lined his sleeve 
and curiously she examined it. 

“See—your clothes—you need new ones.” 

Arthur glanced at the shabby, shiny cuff with 
unconcern. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“But it does. You need better things, to help you 
hunt. I saved all your clothes—in there—” 

She motioned toward her bed-chamber adjoining 
and urged him toward the draperies of the door 
between. 

“Hurry, while you have the time, and slip into 
something else.” 

“You’re right. You always were right, Lorry.” 

As he strode into the bedroom to make the 
change, she returned to the table. There, with an 
infinite care and fondness, she began to fold up the 
tiny garments, to place the shoes side by side, nested, 
to re-wrap the bundle. 


At the entrance to the house a stealthy figure 
moved from the protection of the driveway. 

“It’s a funny game he’s playin’.” Murphy mut¬ 
tered. “Whatever it is, I’m in on it, an’ if he’s 
double-crossin’ me—” 

Impatiently he moved toward the door. He patted 
his hand on his hip, and felt reassuringly the 


After the Ball 


275 


metalled outlines beneath his coat. Then he crept 
up the steps, noiselessly swung the door open, and 
passed inside. 


Lorraine knelt beside the cedar-chest and placed 
away the treasured package. She closed the lid 
slowly, aware that she was bringing an end to a 
chapter portentous in her brother’s life. 

From the hallway outside came a muffled sound. 
In the haste of their reunion, she saw, she and 
Arthur had left the door to her room open. She 
sprang quickly to her feet. Her thought was all for 
Arthur; her father’s voice, she expected, would be 
heard the next instant, and it would be necessary for 
her to act adroitly to prevent exposure of Arthur’s 
presence. 

The following moment her fears were of more 
blood-congealing kind. The door was being pushed 
open by someone in the hall—someone who moved 
without the candor of honest purpose—someone 
whose impending entrance meant danger—horrors. 

Her face became transfixed with fright. Her 
eyes were focused upon one thing. Grasping the 
edge of the door she saw a hand—a strangling, 
brutal hand whose three fingers screamed of mu¬ 
tilations. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


M URPHY pushed the door a little further ajar, 
and then paused to reconnoiter. Beyond that 
door, he figured, somewhere were Arthur and his 
frail, probably engaged in a little billing and cooing 
before Arthur beat it with the works. 

Lorraine’s room was the only one he had seen 
whose lighted interior indicated occupancy. He 
heard no sound of moving about. 

Warily he gazed through the partly opened door¬ 
way. The usual furnishings of a woman’s room im¬ 
pressed him with their wealth, although their sim¬ 
plicity displeased him because they did not seem to 
promise much in the way of plunder. 

His gaze swept the space before him. Then his 
eyes became riveted, intent. Upon the divan, where 
it had been discarded, was Lorraine’s jewel-case. 
Half hanging out of it was the string of pearls she 
had shown to Arthur. Here was his meat. Strange 
that it was not already in Arthur’s pocket. No tell¬ 
ing what a goofy guy like him would do, though. 

His fingers tightened spasmodically, with a prim¬ 
itive impulse to grab, upon the edge of the door. 
His free hand groped for his pocket. He drew his 
pistol from its keeping-place and tossed it, to limber 
his muscles, in his hand. Then he stepped forward. 

As he stepped into the room Lorraine shrank 
back, her feet striking the edge of the cedar-chest. 


After the Ball 


277 


Her whole body recoiled in horror from this men¬ 
ace. Murphy’s sweeping glance told him that she 
was alone in the room. He had been surprised to 
see her there, but her presence was not dangerous. 
He waved the gun toward her, commanding silence 
with the motion. 

Her hands went to her face. Whatever hap¬ 
pened, she told herself, panic-stirred, she must not 
arouse Arthur, in the next room. Only to let this 
man get what he sought and then depart, as quickly 
as possible before Arthur entered. 

Murphy stepped toward the jewel-case. His 
movement brought response from her. Her thought 
was to press the gems into his hands and motion him 
from the room. 

But he misinterpreted it. At her first motion he 
raised his gun menacingly and advanced toward 
her. He’d put the fearuhgawd into her, he told 
himself. He jammed the muzzle of the weapon 
against her lips so fiercely that the impact made 
a circular bruise, and hissed into her ear: 

“You pull anything, and you’ll get what’s it!” 

Despite the pain and fear, Lorraine managed to 
summon her senses. She signalled to him with her 
hands, placing a finger on her own lips, and then 
nodding to him. Murphy wondered what she meant. 
Was the girl nuts? he questioned. What was her 
idea, warning him to be quiet? Was she up to 
some game, her and her sweetie? Puzzled, he re¬ 
peated his threat. 

Lorraine could only nod in acquiescence, and mo¬ 
tion him toward the jewel-case. Still puzzled, Mur¬ 
phy moved toward the gems, determined that what- 


278 After the Ball 

ever was behind the queer lay, he’d get his and 
blow. 

His hand closed over the enamel. Gingerly he 
raised the lid and peered inside. The stuff was 
real all right. . . . 

Arthur, nearly dressed, reached in the next room 
for a hair-brush. His hand brushed against an or¬ 
nament upon the dressing-table, and upset it. 

Murphy swirled in his tracks. He located the 
jingling sound as coming from the room beyond. 
He moved toward the doorway, his gun poised— 

Lorraine screamed. Her pent-up nerves ex¬ 
ploded at this threat of harm to Arthur. Her voice 
quavered with terror and, as quickly, was hushed 
by her trembling hand upon her mouth. 

But it was enough. It carried into the adjoin¬ 
ing room. As Arthur, alarmed at her cry, strode 
toward the portieres that separated the rooms, Mur¬ 
phy wheeled about and sprang toward her, to check 
the further outcry he thought was coming. He tow¬ 
ered over her. His hand held the gun aloft, the butt 
of the weapon poised to strike downward, flail-like, 
upon her. 

Arthur stepped in the doorway. He paused, as¬ 
tonished, as he parted the draperies, and was frozen 
with surprise at what he saw. 

Something in Lorraine’s attitude checked Murphy 
as he was about to strike. A new expression in the 
girl’s eyes—something that was not of terror for 
him—warned him. Her glance shifted, and he felt, 
rather than saw, that she was looking at someone 
behind him. 


After the Ball 279 

He was between two foes. He hesitated a mo¬ 
ment, and in that hesitation, lost his advantage. 

Arthur grasped a flower-vase, a heavy receptacle, 
that rested upon a gate-leg table. Lorraine’s invol¬ 
untary cry of warning as she saw him seize the 
weapon startled Murphy. He turned to see what 
threatened him from the rear, and as he did so, Ar¬ 
thur hurled the vase. 

The missile sped true. Its heavy weight struck 
Murphy on the wrist of the hand that held the gun. 
With a whine of pain he dropped the pistol and 
grasped at his tortured wrist with his other hand. 

The pistol clattered to the floor. Spurred by the 
same primal impulse, each alive to the necessity, the 
driving importance of being first to grasp it, both 
men hurled themselves on the floor toward the all- 
compelling weapon. 

Lorraine ran forward as they leaped. She was 
met by a swirling, tossing, writhing group of torsos, 
arms and legs. Murphy, Arthur, their bodies locked 
and entwined, tumbled crazily over the floor in the 
dual effort of each to hold the other back, and to 
get the gun. 

Muscles straining, hearts pounding, breath com¬ 
ing short and racked, the combatants struggled to¬ 
ward the weapon. Neither was free to strike a blow, 
though Murphy, elevating his knee, crushed it 
against Arthur’s chest. The agony stung him to 
superiority of strength for the moment. Arthur 
turned, twisted, tugged, until a hand was loosed. 
With a frenzy not of himself he grabbed at the 
pistol-butt, lying only a few precious inches away. 


280 


After the Ball 


Then he was forced to pull back his hand and 
shove aside Murphy’s thumb, which was boring, 
stabbing like a red-hot iron, into Arthur’s eye. 

Their bodies, wrenched and distorted in grotesque 
attitudes as of bronzes twisted in the molding, en¬ 
tranced Lorraine with a crazy fascination. They 
were unreal, fantastic. Of more practical value, she 
realized that she did not dare strike at one for fear 
of hitting Arthur. 

Momentarily Murphy gained the advantage. He 
wrenched Arthur’s arm behind his back so that 
Arthur was compelled to loosen his grip on Mur¬ 
phy’s wrists; and in that motion the thug grasped 
lightning-like toward the pistol. But Lorraine, now 
keenly alert, ran in and ground her heel into his 
fingers. He grunted with the pain, and her foot 
tossed the pistol away. She started to run toward 
it, but Murphy caught at her ankle, pulled, and she 
lurched to the floor with the others. 

And now the three, all tangled together, bruised, 
torn and bleeding, contended for possession of the 
pistol. The struggle seemed interminable. . . . 

Up the driveway of the Trevelyan home, on his 
hourly round, approached the night watchman main¬ 
tained by a private patrol service. As he neared the 
entrance he paused and stared curiously at the 
opened doorway. Often late homecomers, careless 
in their haste to retire, left doors ajar behind them; 
and it was part of his duty to close them. But such 
an occurrence was an unheard of thing with the 
Trevelyans. He wondered about it. . . . 

Lorraine, trying to extricate herself from the heap 


After the Ball 


281 


in order to place the gun in her brother’s hands, 
found herself pinioned to the floor by Murphy’s out¬ 
stretched arm. She bit into the hard, writhing flesh 
beneath the cloth. She could feel her teeth crush¬ 
ing out the life of the tendons, and Murphy’s con¬ 
vulsive twitching. 

Then it seemed as if a cosmic upheaval threw her 
free from the other two; and with her breath driven 
from her by the power behind the effort, she was 
hurled sidelong toward a wall. Dizzily she groped 
to her knees. Her gaze involuntarily turned toward 
the scene of conflict, and there she saw the two men, 
each sprawling, each grasping the pistol in frenzied 
grip. 

Their four hands were locked around the butt and 
barrel of the weapon. Their elbows, knees and 
shoulders were thrusting, contorting, each trying to 
throw off the other’s grasp. So, with body-thrusts, 
efforts to entwine a leg and trip the other, the two 
tugged for the pistol and slowly, straining, tussling, 
panting, they struggled to their feet. 

Lorraine found herself watching Arthur and 
Murphy with a curious chilled sense of detachment. 
She was being a spectator at a series of tableaus in 
which each frozen attitude of horror lapsed into one 
more starkly hideous. The faces were not those of 
her brother and a housebreaker; they were carica¬ 
tures, gargoyles of the kill. 

A detail caught her attention. Their hands—their 
twining, muscle-knotted hands! How oddly the ten¬ 
dons stood out, and how the little bunches of en¬ 
gorged veins made arabesques upon the purpled 


282 


After the Ball 


flesh! Interesting, that one of the hands was being 
bent backward, was slipping, sliding, from its pro¬ 
tective grasp upon the barrel, while a finger was 
stealing around a trigger— 

Then there was a crashing detonation that 
rocketed into the room and bounded against the 
walls. Her ears rang and her eyes were blinded 
momentarily by a flash of flame. 

Outside, the watchman heard the pistol-shot. He 
leaped across the threshold and into the house. 

When Lorraine looked again a thin wisp of acrid 
smoke was still trailing upward. Arthur, puzzled, 
bewildered, was staring down at Murphy, who was 
sinking upon the floor. His arms and legs were 
sprawling, like a sawdust doll in need of stuffing. 
His hand was still grasping the pistol. His mouth 
was open, the lips drawn tightly against his teeth. 

He drooped suddenly, and lay still. Aghast, 
brother and sister stared at the body, and then at 
each other. Lorraine, galvanized to action, sprang 
to Arthur and grasped him roughly by the arm. 

“Go! Go!” she urged. “Leave this to me!” 

Her words stirred Arthur from his stupor. He 
jerked himself free from her grasp and resisted her 
efforts to thrust him to the door. 

“What! And leave you here with this?” 

“But you must! Think! Think what will happen 
if you are found here—after this has happened!” 

She motioned graphically toward Murphy. 

“Think what will happen if you are here alone!” 
Arthur retorted. 


After the Ball 283 

“No, no! Don't argue about it! Go! Quickly, 
before someone comes!” 

“I can't, dear! How could you explain it?” 

“But I—” 

“S-s-s-h!” 

His warning signal came at a critical moment. A 
step at the doorway swung them around. They 
faced the watchman. 

Lorraine, still instinctively protective, began to 
speak. Before more than a few incoherent words 
were uttered, Arthur checked her. 

He nodded to the watchman, then motioned to¬ 
ward Murphy upon the floor. 

“You’re just in time, Officer.” 

Lorraine’s sharp intake of breath signalled to 
Arthur her astonishment at his audacity. Hurriedly, 
before she could betray the truth of the situation, he 
continued: 

“I heard this lady—” he motioned toward Lor¬ 
raine as if he had never seen her until that night— 
“I heard her scream as I was passing the house. 
When I ran in, I found this man—” 

Unnoticed by the group, each intent upon the 
story Arthur was telling, Murphy had stirred a little 
where he lay. His eyes opened slightly. There was 
a glimmer of consciousness in them. 

“There was a struggle,” Arthur was saying. “He 
tried to shoot when I went to this lady’s defense. 
While we were fighting, the gun went off—” 

“And then you came in,” Lorraine interposed. 
Arthur glanced at her gratefully. 

The watchman looked dubiously at the couple, 
then studied the inert figure on the floor. 


284 


After the Ball 


“Just in time, huh? I’m thinking I’m too late.” 

His comment came as a prelude to what followed. 
Murphy moved. With an effort he seemed to turn 
on his face. He groaned slightly. 

The watchman crossed quickly to the wounded 
man and, kneeling, bent over him. He lifted Mur¬ 
phy’s head from the floor and held him in a relaxed 
position. The movement served to revive Murphy, 
and he groaned again, this time more vigorously. 

“Quick!” the watchman instructed. “Phone for 
the ambulance.” 

“Wait!” Murphy’s request came forced and 
straining. Lorraine, starting in her errand of mercy, 
heard him and turned toward him. 

“He’s lying!” Murphy gasped. His eyes sought 
for Arthur, and fastened upon him with a venom¬ 
ous, malicious glare. “He lies! We were on this 
job together, an’ he tried to double-cross me!” 

“Why, how terrible! To say that!” Lorraine was 
dumfounded. Not dreaming of any association be¬ 
tween her brother and this intruder, the accusation 
came like a thunderbolt. Arthur alone sensed the 
danger behind it. In a flash he saw the chain of 
events which loomed ahead as a result of this un¬ 
expected reversal to his plans; and the imminence 
of his identification as an escaped convict tore at 
him. Only by some good luck and entire silence 
might this menace be averted. 

His eyes caught Lorraine’s. There was a pres¬ 
sure of meaning in his glance. 

“The man is vengeful because I caught him in 
the act,” he commented. “Of course, Officer, I sup¬ 
pose you must do your duty.” 


After the Ball 285 

“We’ll just wait till the police arrive,” the watch¬ 
man said grimly. 

He moved to the phone that stood on Lorraine’s 
desk. Silently, with despair in their hearts, Arthur 
and Lorraine heard him call the Central Station. 
There were foreboding and doom in the instructions 
which he gave. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Y OUNG Mr. Douglas Furey of the District At¬ 
torney’s staff was feeling his spurs increase in 
length and sharpness. He was full of the zeal of 
ambition and a warming sense of complacency in 
having handled his first case in creditable manner. 
His eyes gleamed through their thick-rimmed 
glasses, and his dapper body was alive with energy, 
as he completed laying before Tom Stevens the 
documents he had prepared in his first task as assis¬ 
tant to the Chief Deputy. 

It was late afternoon, and the drum and confusion 
of homeward bound traffic broke into the seclusion 
of Tom’s office with a roar that reverberated down 
the corridors. A shaft of sunlight, mellowed by 
an ocean-born haze, shone into the room and dis¬ 
pelled the gloom that usually seemed to linger about 
this cloister for the confusion of evil-doers. 

The illumination, in which bits of dust climbed 
as on a golden stairway, failed to drive away the 
depression in Tom Stevens’ heart. Ever since the 
night of the ball he had felt that emotion of empti¬ 
ness. When it had been reported to him that an un¬ 
identified burglary suspect had been arrested in the 
room of Lorraine Trevelyan, with a supposed ac¬ 
complice lying perhaps mortally wounded at his 
feet and Miss Trevelyan hysterically trying to 
shield the prisoner, the hopelessness of his love for 


After the Ball 287 

Lorraine Trevelyan assumed gigantic proportions; 
for the first photographs of the prisoner had re¬ 
vealed to Tom that the suspect was the man whom 
he had seen in Lorraine’s arms that eventful 
night when the soothsayer had prophesied trouble. 
Trouble, indeed, and it weighed heavily upon the 
shoulders of the Chief Deputy. 

But young Mr. Furey, aglow with realization of 
accomplishment, had none of these misgivings. He 
was wholly exulting as he informed his superior: 

“There’s no mistake, Chief! He gives a phony 
name, naturally; but we’ve identified him fully as 
the bird wanted for the Sing Sing getaway. The 
one he shot was his confederate in the escape. Do 
you want to see how we’ve checked him up?” 

Tom shook his head. 

“I’ll rely on your accuracy, of course,” he said. 

“It’s an open-and-shut case,” young Mr. Furey 
continued. “The watchman’s testimony that the 
wounded one, apparently dying, accused this bird 
of having double-crossed him in a plant to rob the 
house, is enough, to say nothing of the circumstan¬ 
tial evidence. The jury should convict without leav¬ 
ing the jury-box.” 

Ah! The optimism of youth! Tom felt centuries 
older and more disillusioned than his youthful assis¬ 
tant. Deep wrinkles of worry creased his forehead, 
and his sign of doubt of an easy victory struck 
alarm in Mr. Furey’s hopeful heart. 

“You don’t think there’s any chance for a slip¬ 
up ?” the assistant queried. 

“Every chance in the world,” was Tom’s dis¬ 
couraging reply. “We don’t know who the man is, 


288 


After the Ball 


though we do know what he is, according to the 
criminal records. There’s something behind him— 
well, never mind that. The point is that if the girl— 
if Miss Trevelyan sticks to her story that this man 
ran into the house to save her from a hold-up, and 
maybe injury, it will be hard to bring a conviction. 
But we’ll try him, and if the jury slips, we’ll spring 
the escape on him, and maybe he’ll disclose what it’s 
all about.” 

“That’s the stuff!” Young Mr. Furey assented 
eagerly. “We win either way, huh? If we miss the 
first time, we’ll fire the other barrel! That’s your 
idea, Chief?” 

“That’s the idea—though I’d like to win a verdict 
on its merits—” 

The door to the private office opened and Gilda 
Gay, who had donned her outer wraps, stood in the 
entrance. She smiled at Tom Stevens, nodded to 
young Mr. Furey in acknowledgment of his pres¬ 
ence, and said: 

“I’ve finished for the evening, Mr. Stevens—is 
there anything more?” 

Tom, with the puzzle about Lorraine and this 
mysterious person with whom she was involved 
heavy upon him, was recalled by Gilda’s words. He 
was about to dismiss her for the day, when his 
glance fell upon the docket that his assistant had left 
on his desk. He picked up the bulky manila folder, 
balanced it in his hand, and said: 

“Just one little matter—” 

Young Mr. Furey took his cue. 

“I’ll be ready when you are, Chief,” he promised. 
“Good night.” 


After the Ball 


289 


Tom’s abstracted nod was the only answer, and 
the novice in legal tourneys departed. Gilda, all at¬ 
tention to her work, forgot the thought of leaving 
the office, and seated herself beside Tom at the desk. 

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. 

Tom was engrossed in contemplation of the 
papers in the docket. He identified at a glance the 
statement made by the watchman at the Trevelyan 
home; the description of the scene as furnished by 
the detective-sergeant who had responded with the 
ambulance call; Miss Trevelyan’s vehement asser¬ 
tion that the prisoner had entered the home upon 
hearing her cry for help; and an affidavit by the 
examining physician at the city jail to the effect that 
the bullet which had wounded the man identified as 
Three-Finger Murphy had been fired at extreme 
close range, the missile ranging upward at an angle 
that coincided with Miss Trevelyan’s description of 
the struggle. 

Significant, however, was the prisoner’s refusal 
to make any statement except to the legal counsel 
for whom he asked; and most interesting of all were 
the full-face and profile photographs of the escaped 
Sing Sing convict which had been supplied by the 
New York State Prison Warden. 

“I was just wondering—” Tom began. He held 
the docket, with the photographs placed at the top 
of the sheaf of papers, tentatively in his hand. 

“Yes?” Gilda leaned forward with an abstract 
interest in her work. 

“I was just wondering if by any chance you were 
familiar with other—well, with other persons, we’ll 
say, whom the Trevelyans may have known?” 


290 


After the Ball 


It was unfair, he knew, to try to learn through 
Gilda whether she could supply the missing link in 
this mystery of Lorraine and the other man, but he 
could not forego the temptation. 

“I don’t think so,” Gilda responded. “As I re¬ 
member, I never met any of the family’s friends. 
Has your question anything, to do with that ?” 

She motioned toward the docket, reaching out 
her hand experimentally. 

“No—not directly, that is. Still, you might see—” 

He was about to hand her the docket. Gilda was 
on the verge of opening the folder and being con¬ 
fronted with the photographs of her husband, cap¬ 
tioned as a fugitive with a price on his head. Then 
the door clicked open. 

“Hello, Muvver! I come to take you home!” 

Eve’s piping treble pealed laughingly into the 
room. She stood on the threshold and when Gilda 
turned at the sound of her voice, ran forward to 
the shelter of her mother’s arms. Where Eve had 
stood a woman appeared; the caretaker with whom 
Gilda left Eve in charge during the day. 

“Wait, baby!” exclaimed the caretaker. “You 
mustn’t interrupt!” 

“It’s all right,” Tom assured. “Hello, youngster.” 

“Sh-s-s-h, honey! Mother’s busy!” Gilda warned. 
She had lifted Eve from her lap to the floor and was 
trying to resume consideration of the business about 
which her employer spoke. 

“If you wish me to look over those, Mr. Stevens ?” 
her words came tentatively. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Tom replied. Several times 
previously his days had been brightened by these 


After the Ball 


291 


visits of Eve, and he welcomed this one as a diver¬ 
sion from his worries. Carelessly, he tossed the 
docket into a desk drawer. 

“Then, that’s all?” Gilda rose holding the baby. 

“I think so—oh, just one minute—” 

Tom was groping now for an excuse to play with 
Eve. He looked desperately over his desk-top. 

“If you’ll just file away these reports and letters 
before you go?” 

“Of course,” was Gilda’s reply. “Come, Eve, 
dear.” 

“Oh, but you mustn’t deprive me of her,” Tom 
protested. “Let me enjoy talking with her until 
you’re ready.” 

“You’re sure she won’t be a nuisance?” 

“‘Nuisance?’ She’s a blessing!” 

Gilda’s warmth of smile at his description repaid 
him for his words. Somehow, he told himself, he 
was beginning to like this girl who had come from 
nowhere by such an odd trick of circumstance. 
Queer—save for an accident, she might have been 
his sister-in-law. 

When Gilda had gone, the baby, as by familiar 
practice, found a nestling place in his lap. For a 
while she was intent upon the amusing manner in 
which seemingly he was able to grasp at his nose 
and then, while that member of his countenance was 
still in place, at the same time make it appear to be 
peeking forth between his first and second fingers. 

Presently, by unclenching his fist and disclosing 
the thumb tucked away to simulate his proboscis, 
she discovered the trick. She gurgled with delight 
at the hoax. Then an idea came. 


292 After the Ball 

“My Muvver thinks you’re nice,” she observed 
sagely. 

“Oho! Does she?” Tom did not know whether 
to take this at its face value, or to discount it be¬ 
cause of Eve’s enthusiasm. 

“Yes—she said so. She said you were almost as 
nice as my Daddy. Did you know my Daddy?” 

“No, Eve. I never knew him. But I wish I had.” 

“So do I,” said Eve. Then: 

“If you did know him, would you think he was 
nice ?” 

“I’m sure I would,” stated Tom. 

Strange complexities and pranks of Fate, that 
gave this man unknowingly the power to juggle 
with her Daddy’s life, while he sat heaping enco¬ 
miums upon him to please the heart of a child! 

“He’d think you were nice, too,” went on Eve. 

Ask Arthur, seated in his jail cell awaiting trial, 
how “nice” he would think this prosecutor. . . . 

“—and so do I,” she added. 

The simplicity of her comment came home with 
force. He hugged her to him. Her softness. Flesh 
—the same flesh—the blood of Lorraine, trans¬ 
muted— 

And Eve, wise with the wisdom of childhood, 
wise enough to be frankly curious: 

“Why hasn’t a nice man like you got little babies 
of your own?” 

Wise Eve. Curious Eve. Amusing Eve. 

“Why haven’t I?” Tom laughed at first, the ques¬ 
tion on the surface charming in its simplicity. “Oh, 
just because—” 

“My Muvver says ‘because’ isn’t any answer.” 


After the Ball 


293 


So that wasn’t any answer! Wise Eve. Wise 
with the wisdom of her namesake. “Because!” Be¬ 
cause he had been a fool, that was why! Because he 
had doubted, and had had no faith. How could he 
have faith, with this latest disclosure of what was 
obviously Lorraine’s perfidy before him? Why? 
Why ? He suffered now to the full the sting of that 
question. Why? Because he could not have faith, 
and he could not accept without faith, and so— 
ring-around-a-rosy — ring-around-a-rosy — so the 
descending spiral of his pessimism swept him, ever 
in narrowing ellipses, ever toward a point in infin¬ 
ite depths. . . . 

Without knowing what he was doing, he placed 
Eve on her feet and strolled to the window. He 
mused darkly. His unseeing eyes encompassed the 
city street. A little group there resuscitated his co¬ 
herent thought. 

An organ-grinder was plying his trade. His un- 
melodious music-box, perched on a stick like a one- 
legged man, was hurling forth flatted tones of an 
old song. Around the itinerant, mechanical player 
were grouped pigtailed she-urchins and soot-daubed 
boys. They were staring, stolidly curious, at the 
organ-grinder. They were children; children alike 
essentially to Eve; children that were symbols of 
what-was-not-his-to-be. 

“Come here, Eve,” he called. 

She came obediently to his side. He placed her 
upon the window-sill and with an arm around her 
for protection, let her lean forward to enjoy what 
the other youngsters were having to themselves. 

“Sweet Julia O’Grady.” Where did the makers 


294 


After the Ball 


of hand-organs resurrect their tunes? Sweet Julia 
came to her end in a wheeze of unoiled cog-wheels. 

Tom threw a coin. It glittered in the light, struck 
the paving, and bounced with a metallic clink. A 
ragamuffin retrieved it, and oddly enough, gave it 
to the organ-grinder, who doffed his cap in thanks. 
He started to turn the crank. . . . 

Something in the air that rose from the street, 
distorted by the sound of traffic and flatted by the 
wheezy reeds of the organ, came with a nostalgia of 
memory to Tom. He listened. The tune was haunt- 
ingly familiar. 

“Da-da-de-da — de-da-da. Da-da — de-da — de- 
da.” It suggested leg-o’-mutton sleeves and the first 
enthusiasm of the bicycle era. He groped to place 
the song—the old song whose simple melody had 
been filed away in an unexercised brain-cell until 
this time. Then he remembered. 

“Mr. Tom!” Eve was demanding attention. “Tell 
me. Why haven’t you any little babies of your 
own?” 

“I’ll tell you, Eve. I’ll tell you a story.” 

He closed the window to shut out the tune that 
recalled the song, that recalled the words, that re¬ 
called Lorraine and himself—but still the thing lilted 
through his mind. It told its own story, as he was 
about to tell it to Eve. “La-da-de-da-de-da-da”— 
“Aft-er—the—Ball—was O-ver—”—La-de-da—de- 
da^— 

He found himself, reminiscent, with Eve again 
upon his knee. She was squirming herself into a 
position to enjoy, with a sybaritic sense of luxury, 


After the Ball 295 

the emotions which she expected his story to bring. 
And he began: 

“When I was about your age, my mother used to 
sing to me—” 

He sketched a picture of a Middle-Western “par- 
lord’ There was a young woman, garbed in the cos¬ 
tume prevalent even before the “straight-front” cor¬ 
set came in, seated at a golden-oak piano. The 
“period” furniture was of that past-century age 
when Bryan, and 16-to-l, or McKinley, and a full 
dinner-pail, were paramount issues. There was a 
what-not near the piano, prominent on which were 
a conch-shell, labelled with the name of “Cape May, 
N. J.”; and a souvenir spoon from Niagara Falls. 

These were the things which impressed a young 
boy, who at the time of which Tom spoke, was 
standing beside his mother at the piano. He listened 
eagerly, though only partly understanding, as she 
sang: 

After the ball is over, 

After the break of morn, 

After the dancers leaving, 

After the stars are gone, 

Many a heart is aching, 

If you could read them all, 

Many a dear heart has vanished 
After the ball. 

When Tom had finished reciting to Eve the words 
of the song, the youngster looked up into his face 
with approval. 

“That’s a nice song, Mr. Tom,” she affirmed. “It 
sound pretty, like music does when my Muvver 
sings.” 


296 


After the Ball 


“Does it, Eve? Would you like to hear some 
more ?” 

“Oh, yes!” She wriggled in a fervor of content¬ 
ment. And he continued: 

Bright lights were flashing in the gay ballroom, 
Softly the music playing sweet tunes, 

There came my sweetheart, my love, my own, 
“Bring me some water, leave me alone.” 

When I returned, dear, there stood a man 
Kissing my sweetheart, as lovers can. 

Down fell the glass, dear, broken, that’s all, 

Just as my heart was, after the ball. 

His voice died out, and the room of the Chief 
Deputy District Attorney became silent. Eve in¬ 
spected her diminutive fingers minutely. Tom had 
not a word. 

Eve didn’t like this song so much now. She didn’t 
know what it all meant, but it wasn’t happy; and 
she liked happy things, like her muvver’s smile, and 
what her muvver told her of her Daddy. Maybe, she 
hoped, there might be a happy ending, though she 
didn’t express it by that term. 

Accordingly she waited. Tom kept strangely si¬ 
lent. He seemed to be studying now a photograph 
of a strange lady; a beautiful lady whom Eve did 
not know. Maybe Mr. Tom had forgotten about his 
song because he was looking at the lady’s picture. 

At last Eve ventured another question: 

“Isn’t there any more?” 

Tom Stevens replaced the photograph in the 
drawer. He pressed Eve a little closer. For a mo- 


After the Ball 


297 


ment he tried to bring himself to the point of saying 
that possibly—only possibly—he might have more 
of the story to tell later; but his logical, legal mind 
would not allow the preposition. 

“No, dear,’’ he was compelled to answer. “I’m 
afraid—there isn’t—any more.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


“T TELL you, the incompetency of the police is 

-*■ —is—well, it’s something awful!” 

.Old Mark Trevelyan was aware of the inadequacy 
of his denunciation, even as he spoke; but he could 
not find words to express his indignation that in his 
own home—his, of all places! the guardians of the 
peace had been so negligent as to allow one night 
marauder to shoot down another, in the very pres¬ 
ence of his daughter! 

He moved restlessly, as he sat in the library with 
a swollen, cotton-bandaged foot propped upon a 
chair, and confounded the police department and all 
its works. The motion cost him a twinge of pain 
in his gouty foot that added to his indignation at 
the affront which had been put upon the tranquil¬ 
lity of his home. 

“I don’t suppose they ever found out?” 

“Found what, Father ?” 

Lorraine allowed the letter she had been reading 
to drop in her lap as she turned in answer to her 
father’s question. There were furrows of anxiety 
in her forehead; and her eyes had a hurt, worried 
look in them which Trevelyan, had he been in his 
usual good form, must have noticed. 

“Found about that man who did the shooting,” 
Trevelyan explained. 

“He—he didn’t do the shooting, Father. It was 
an accident,” she said. 


After the Ball 


299 


“I don’t see why you defend him,” Trevelyan ob¬ 
jected. “Just look at the trouble you’ve caused your¬ 
self, with all the detectives around asking questions, 
and everything. Why don’t you wash your hands of 
the matter and let him get what he deserves?” 

“I’ve told you, dear—he came in to help me. I 
can’t do less than the same for him.” 

She glanced uneasily at the letter in her lap. 

“Huh!” There was resentment at the annoyance 
caused his daughter by the affair, as well as resent¬ 
ment at his own incapacity, which brought Trevel¬ 
yan’s exclamation. “Probably the whole thing was 
a put-up job, and they got to fighting among them¬ 
selves.” 

“Oh, no! There couldn’t have been anything like 
that—this burglar was in the room, and then the 
other man ran in, after I screamed.” 

“Sounds wrong, somehow. If I could get around, 
I’d put an end to it. You’ve been subpenaed, too?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’ll have to go to court, and be stared at 
by a lot of curiosity-seekers?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well!” Trevelyan grunted. “If this foot of mine 
would let me, I’d be there with you and see that you 
received proper treatment. Bunch of officious jack¬ 
anapes !” 

Lorraine glanced at the letter again. In the 
weeks before his coming trial Arthur had managed, 
through the lawyer whom Lorraine secretly had re¬ 
tained for him, to get word to her that now, more 
than ever, his identity must be kept hidden lest he 
be returned to Sing Sing as an escaped convict. It 


300 


After the Ball 


was the menace of this possibility which had en¬ 
graved the fine lines of worry on her brow. As she 
read the lines again, she realized how difficult it was 
going to be to keep Mr. Trevelyan in ignorance of 
what lay behind her willingness to testify for this 
apparent stranger. 

“Don’t worry so, Father,” she persuaded. “I—I 
don’t mind. In fact, it will be so interesting to see 
how those things are done. And I’m sure I won’t 
be subjected to annoyance.” 

“That young Tom Stevens having anything to do 
with it?” 

“Why—I don’t know. I hardly think so.” 

As a matter of fact it was the possibility that she 
might encounter Tom in her role as witness that so 
alarmed her. 

“You wouldn’t exactly mind, would you?” Tre¬ 
velyan still was cherishing a hope that the engage¬ 
ment of Lorraine and Tom might be revived. 

“It wouldn’t matter, dear, one way or another,” 
she tried to dissemble. 

“Huh!” and Mr. Trevelyan resumed his reading. 

This suggestion that Tom Stevens might be in¬ 
volved in the prosecution of the case—it was terrify¬ 
ing. She could only hope that Tom, if indeed he 
were to have a part in the trial, would not recognize 
Arthur as the man whom he had seen with her on 
the Armory terrace. 


The scales of Justice, how they sway! The sword 
of Justice, how it strikes! The eyes of Justice—the 


After the Ball 301 

blinded eyes, which fail to see that beyond the fact 
is sometimes something more! 

Blind Justice, painted behind the judge’s bench, 
with her scales in the one hand to weigh the evi¬ 
dence, and the sword in the other, with which to 
execute the law! The law—majestic and supreme; 
fetish and symbol of man’s herd instinct; decisive 
and ultimate for today; let yesterday’s precedents 
and tomorrow’s amendments look to themselves! 

The machinery of the law; the gears which mesh 
to grind alike the grist to catch a petty thief and to 
preserve the comity of nations; the functionaries of 
the law, who serve the machine to keep it cumber- 
somely in operation and turn the cogs—now slow, 
now fast; now smoothly and without friction; now 
jarringly and with mechanical flaws! 

The dignity of the law; the judge, the umpire of 
the legal game; the bailiffs, clerks, attaches, who 
keep check of the umpire’s rules; the lawyers, those 
“servants of the court” who move the pawns and 
make the plays; the talesmen, jurors who decide 
which adversary won; the spectators, an antiphonal 
chorus for the bench’s quips; the court-room as a 
whole, huge sublimate of the tribal conclave as¬ 
sembled now to try one man; lastly a defendant, 
meshed in legal tape. 

“—and there he was on the floor, and this gentle¬ 
man standing beside him, and this lady—” 

The night watchman’s voice, testifying on the 
stand, broke into Lorraine’s revery. She looked up, 
to catch the witness’ motion toward her. 

Beside the witness was Chief Deputy District At- 


302 


After the Ball 


torney Stevens. The title, she thought, had an un¬ 
wieldy sound; as heavy and strange as the man who 
bore it, and who was conducting the direct exami¬ 
nation of the witness. She dropped her head for a 
moment at the watchman’s indication of her, and 
then looked cautiously toward “the defendant’s side” 
of the long table, at which Arthur Trevelyan sat. 

The scene had become familiar. Directly before 
her, the judge upon his dais. To her right, the wit¬ 
ness in his chair; still further to the right, the con¬ 
glomerate jury in its box. 

Between where she sat and the judge was inter¬ 
posed the counsels’ table. The prosecution, in ac¬ 
cordance with custom, had the point of advantage 
at the end nearer the jury. Her brother, and his at¬ 
torney, were at the other end. A blue-coated, nickel- 
buttoned bailiff sat near, and behind, her brother, 
there to prevent possibility of the prisoner’s escape. 

Behind her, beyond the railing at her back, was 
the audience, which buzzed, or sighed, or gasped or 
giggled nervously, as the drama which the State was 
staging was unfolded. 

“—and this lady,” the watchman was relating, 
“was saying that she had been rescued just in time, 
and—” 

Lorraine watched how skillfully Tom Stevens 
guided the witness in his narrative; just skillfully 
enough, she saw, to circumvent the objections of the 
defense, and still bring out the account desired for 
the impression upon the jury. 

“—and this bird on the floor, he says—” 

“I object, Your Honor!” 


After the Ball 303 

Arthur’s lawyer was upon his feet, waving- an im¬ 
portunate hand toward the judge. 

“We.submit,” the attorney argued, “that the al¬ 
leged victim of the alleged felonious assault with in¬ 
tent to commit murder with which the defendant is 
charged is the best witness as to what he said!”' 

The audience buzzed. There was a knotty point 
ifor you! Let’s see howi the judge would unravel 
that, now! 

The judge raised his eyebrows inquiringly. It 
was the State’s next move. 

The State, in the person of Tom Stevens, moved 
to the prosecution’s end of the counsel table and 
gathered up an imposing sheaf of documents. He 
approached the bench, and in a confiding, man-to¬ 
man sort of manner, addressed the Court: 

“We offer a deposition,” he began, “by the physi¬ 
cian for the victim of the murderous assault, prov¬ 
ing that the victim is too ill to testify—” 

“Wait a minute!” insisted Arthur’s counsel. 

“—and a deposition by the victim,” Tom con¬ 
tinued, “in which he admits that he and the de¬ 
fendant were engaged in an unlawful undertaking, 
to wit—” 

This was being most damaging, Lorraine could 
see. She watched sharply for the effect upon the 
jury of the prosecution’s words. She knew that 
Tom was scoring a point. 

She risked observation by stealing a glance 
toward Arthur. He looked toward her at the mo¬ 
ment, and their eyes met. He smiled encouragingly 
at her. 


304 


After the Ball 


“Objection overruled,” determined the judge. 

“Exception.” The defense’s comment was a for¬ 
mality, for purposes of the record only. 

“Continue with the witness,” the judge instructed. 

Tom Stevens himself had been led astray in his 
thoughts. He had seen the exchange of smiles be¬ 
tween this man whom he was trying and the girl 
whom he had hoped to wed. It hurt to know of 
some secret understanding. His heart was heavy as 
he turned again to the watchman and prodded him 
with: 

“And what did he say?” 

“Well, this bird on the floor, he says: 'He’s lyin’; 
he double-crossed me.’ ” 

“What happened next?” 

The watchman told. He talked. And talked. . . . 


“The prosecution rests.” 

It was the signal for which Arthur’s lawyer had 
been waiting. 

With an air of assurance, an easy-going, confi¬ 
dent manner which spoke volumes of faith in his 
client’s virtue and innocence, the attorney for the 
defense addressed the Court. 

“We have only one witness, Your Honor,” he 
said. “We will call—” he paused to heighten the 
dramatic effect of the name he was about to utter, 
“—Miss Lorraine Trevelyan to the stand.” 

Here was the ordeal which Lorraine had feared. 
Now it was upon her. Her knees trembled a little 
as she arose; but she steeled her nerves and walked 
toward the witness chair to take the oath. 


After the Ball 


305 


She seated herself in the chair and adjusted her 
position for the inquisition. Her chin held high, her 
face composed, she chanced a glance around the 
courtroom to see if she could meet the accumulated 
stares that were leveled at her likejances. The ex¬ 
periment was encouraging. She found herself cool 
and calmly gazed in Tom’s direction. 

No sign of recognition fluttered over her face 
when her eyes met his. There was only the serenity 
of a high-born woman who is facing a matter of 
duty, possibly a trifle annoying. But of the tumul¬ 
tuous emotion which assailed her behind the surface, 
there was no outward sign. 

And Tom, as he received Lorraine’s frigid and 
indifferent glance, returned it in the same measure. 

But Arthur’s attorney was speaking. She had 
answered mechanically the formal questions about 
her name, age, residence, which acted as an over¬ 
ture. Now she must concentrate, must give close 
attention. 

“Tell the jury in your own words, Miss Trevel¬ 
yan, what happened on the night in question.” 

Steadily, choosing each word carefully, deliber¬ 
ately trying to make as strong an impression upon 
the jury as possible, she began to speak. She told 
how she had been preparing to retire for the night; 
how by chance she had looked for a certain trinket 
in her jewel-box; how, while examining it, her at¬ 
tention had been attracted by a sound outside her 
door; how she had looked up to see a man stand¬ 
ing in the doorway; how the sudden start at viewing 
the intruder had caused her to cry out involuntarily. 


306 


After the Ball 


She was conscious so far of having- done it well. 
She had all the strength of money, and position, and 
social standing, at her back; and she knew her words 
were carrying weight with the arbiters of Arthur’s 
destiny. 

“After I screamed—it seemed only an instant— 
I saw Mr.—” 

Abruptly she caught herself. Her heart leaped 
at the imminence of the pitfall into which she had 
so nearly fallen. She had been about to utter 
Arthur’s name—to call by name the man whom she 
was supposed to know only as a rescuer of damsels 
in distress. 

She was nauseated at her narrow escape. To 
steady herself, she looked toward Arthur. The 
merest trace of a frown from him cautioned her. To 
the onlookers it seemed only as if she had directed 
her gaze toward Arthur to indicate the person of 
whom she spoke. 

“I saw this gentleman in the room.” Her state¬ 
ment, in its brevity, regained for her courage to go 
on. “There was a fight—” 

She was half hearing her own words narrate what 
had happened after Arthur entered the room, and 
half wondering what their effect was having. As 
she added details, as she built up Arthur’s defense, 
she was growingly conscious of Tom’s steady, nar¬ 
rowing, speculative stare. She tried to throw off the 
pressure of his gaze. 

“They were struggling to get possession of this 
gun that the man brought with him. Somehow the 
gun was twisted in their hands. I was watching, 
frightened—of course. Then the gun went off—” 


After the Ball 


307 


Tom Stevens found himself waiting for some sign 
from the defendant’s actions which would guide his 
course. But Arthur gave only surface interest, 
natural enough for a person in his predicament, in 
what his witness testified. It was a puzzling, thwart¬ 
ing three-corner drama they were playing. 

But as Stevens studied Arthur’s face, something 
inside him kept hinting, whispering .... Tom 
dropped his eyes and gazed reflectively at the shin¬ 
ing globular surface of the water-pitcher before him. 
Only his external ears were attentive to the testi¬ 
mony. His inner consciousness was listening, lis¬ 
tening to the whispers. 

The globular surface of the water-pitcher itself 
seemed to suggest. To sketch vaguely. Something 
globular, and round. Crystal. Round. A crystal 
sphere. A fortune-teller. A ballroom. A terrace— 
that was it! 

He caught himself on the verge of leaping from 
his chair in exultation! Now he knew where he had 
seen this man before! Now he understood what the 
whispers were trying to say! Now he remembered 
what this defendant meant to Lorraine. 

His vision bridged the gap of memory and 
brought vividly back the Armory terrace—the night 
of the ball—Lorraine’s uneasiness—the man with 
whom he caught her—their kiss—the other’s flight! 

It was all so simple. No wonder he was in her 
home! No wonder she was trying to shield him! 

“—the man who was shot fell to the floor—we 
stood there watching him—and then the watchman 
entered—and that was all—” 

Abruptly Tom realized that she was ending her 


308 


After the Ball 


direct testimony; that counsel for the defense was 
concluding examination; that the judge was direct¬ 
ing him to take the witness. 

Tom rose to his feet. He knew he could not shake 
Lorraine’s account. He bowed negatively toward 
her, and then informed the judge: 

“No cross-examination.” 

Arthur Trevelyan raised his head with sudden 
relief. He had been fearing the ordeal to which 
Lorraine might be subjected. It seemed almost too 
good to be true—that his sister should escape. 

Lorraine too was puzzled, taken unaware, at the 
brevity of her task. She look toward Arthur’s law¬ 
yer for confirmation. 

“That’s all, Miss Trevelyan,” she heard the law¬ 
yer say. 

Gratefully she started to rise from the stand. In¬ 
stinctively she smoothed down her dress, the motion 
gaining time for her to begin the long walk back to 
her place a few feet beyond. And then she saw Tom 
Stevens move. 

As if struck suddenly with the necessity of atten¬ 
tion to some small oversight, Tom unfolded quickly 
from his chair, and stepped toward her rapidly. His 
hand was raised apologetically, apparently to halt 
her before she should be made to take unnecessary 
steps back to the witness chair. He was looking at 
her steadily, with a little suggestion of eagerness, 
obvious intentness upon his work. 

She halted at the foot of the raised platform on 
which the witness chair was placed. He motioned 
her back toward the chair. 

“Just one question, Miss Trevelyan—” 


After the Ball 


309 


The attorney for the defense half rose from his 
seat and then subsided again. He was familiar with 
the old trick of the trial lawyer, and sensed the ruse 
to take the witness off her guard; but there was 
nothing he could do. 

Lorraine sank into the chair. She settled herself 
into position and composed herself easily, her hands 
resting upon the chair-arms lightly. She raised her 
head and glanced calmly toward Tom. 

His face now had lost its benign suavity. He 
paced across the floor until he reached a position 
directly in front of her. His expression was stony. 
The muscles of his face were set and grim. 

Arthur Trevelyan stared anxiously, first at his 
sister and then at Stevens. The silence of the pro¬ 
secuting attorney was ominous. Why didn’t he ask 
his question and be done with it? 

Now his face loomed close before hers, and his 
eyes commanded attention. She forced herself to 
meet his penetrating gaze. The pupils of her eyes 
narrowed, and her mouth was drawn to a fine, tense 
line. The silence became acute. 

Finally Tom Stevens raised his arm. Still fixing 
Lorraine’s gaze upon himself, he motioned in the 
direction in which he knew Arthur to be sitting. He 
opened his lips. 

The courtroom, aware that the “one big mo¬ 
ment” that occurs in every trial of importance now 
was being enacted, was still and immobile. Far 
down a corridor a door slammed. All waited for 
the attorney to speak. 

“Miss Trevelyan—” the words were cold and in¬ 
cisive—“did you ever—” 


310 


After the Ball 


He paused and framed his query in new guise. 

“Before the night of the shooting, did you ever— 
see — this—defendant ?” 

Ah-h-h! A little anticipatory shiver ran through 
the audience. There was a keen one! What was this 
girl going to say now? Whadda yuh suppose he’s 
driving at? 

Lorraine, staring into Tom’s face, felt herself 
being bored, penetrated by the steely, driving power 
of his glance. She saw the trap yawning before her. 
She fought for composure. Her eyes closed in self- 
defense. 

She knew now the peril that lay in any answer to 
the question. She knew that Tom knew that Arthur 
was the man seen on the Armory terrace. She was 
being impaled upon the two horns of a dilemma, 
from neither of which could she escape without 
injury. 

She opened her eyes and looked pitifully at Tom. 
If only she could persuade him to take his question 
back—obliterate it! But already the court stenog¬ 
rapher had recorded it. She must choose—must 
force a decision. . 

To lie—to answer the question in the negative— 
to destroy Tom’s faith not only in her fidelity of her 
love, but her honesty of speech? 

She studied his face as if hoping to find an answer 
there. His features showed the struggle he was 
having while he waited. 

Something in his expression made her look away. 
She turned toward Arthur. Her brother was gaz¬ 
ing at her, his face shouting silently his realization 





- ■ 






' v ‘ 






>•: '• 




wyotoxwvj 




■■ • •: 









. f 

r J 

A® 




9 


filial 










£ 

O 

hH 

H 

U 

0 

Q 

O 

pi 

Ph 


o 

tj 

5 

w 

Ph 

< 


•s 

•s 


>•4 

"tS 

« 


• 


*Kk 




U 

<L> 

> 

<L> 


3 

O 

XJ 
• •—< 

X 3 



<L> 


O 

Mh 

<U 


m 


< 

PQ 

w 

KH 

H 

PP 

W 

H 

fe 

< 





































































. 
































. 














































% . * 


































' 












































































































-. i .. 












* 













































































































• ’ 








































After the Ball 311 

that upon what she would answer must depend vic¬ 
tory or defeat in his fight for freedom. 

To speak true—to admit having known Arthur— 
to shatter his carefully built defense—and destroy 
his future? 

Her brother’s face—that of the man whom still 
she loved—the two swam before her. And of the 
two she made her choice. 

She was reserved and distant in thought and man¬ 
ner now. It was as if she were being swept along 
in a glacier. She glanced back at Tom—caught 
his eye fairly and placed a world of meaning in her 
gaze. 

“No,” she said, and with it there came to Tom a 
subtle emphasis of the fact that she accepted his 
challenge—“no—I never saw him before!” 

The attorney for the defense clutched at Arthur’s 
arm. 

“Lord!” he exclaimed in an undertone, “how 
gloriously she did it!” 

Tom Stevens bowed. He stepped to one side. He 
regarded her for a moment, his glance telling her 
he understood what she had done, and smiled with 
irony. His voice was tinged with bitterness as he 
said : 

“That is all , Miss Trevelyan.” 

Lorraine was dazed with the abruptness with 
which her ordeal ended. She looked unsteadily 
toward the jury box. One juror smiled ingratiat¬ 
ingly at her and twirled an enticing mustache. She 
quickly glanced away. Then shaken and weak, she 
groped her way to her seat. And the argument to 
the jury began. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


'T'HE scales of Justice, how they sway! What 
-*■ little things can sway the scales of Justice! A 
woman’s smile— 

The door of Tom Stevens’ office clicked open 
nervously and Stevens, followed by the young Mr. 
’Furey, stepped disconsolately inside. He flung him¬ 
self into his seat and his assistant perched himself 
upon a corner of the desk. 

Tom slouched down in his chair, a picture of lost 
hope. Young Mr. Furey studied him a moment 
and then wriggled himself into a more pepful at¬ 
titude. 

“Cheer up, Chief,” the assistant advised. “There’s 
always a chance, you know.” 

“Chance? Huh!” Tom’s grunt was expressive of 
his disillusion. 

But young Mr. Furey was determined to find 
some silver lining behind the cloud. 

“Anyway, what can you expect of a jury when 
there’s a pretty woman in the case ? They’ll have a 
verdict inside of ten minutes.” 

Tom nodded. So Lorraine had faced the issue, 
and lied to him to save this man whom he had seen 
kissing her. . . . 

“Besides,” the assistant continued, determined to 
be cheerful, “even if they do acquit him, Sing Sing 
will be glad to get him.” 


After the Ball 


313 


“Yes—” Tom realized that in the tenseness of 
the trial he had forgotten this angle. Here was a 
phase which required thought. He pondered over 
it a moment and then shook his head. 

“There’s something behind all this—” he vol¬ 
unteered. 

Young Furey nodded sagely. 

Still talking his thoughts aloud, Tom resumed: 

“Whatever does lie behind it, Miss Trevelyan has 
the answer.” 

“You’re right, Chief. ‘Cherchez la femme,’ as 
they say.” 

“Yes—search for the woman. Only in this case 
we’ll search for what the man means to the woman.” 

It was a startling thought, evolved while in the 
process of speaking the words. There came like a 
clarifying light, a plan of procedure which would 
satisfy his determination to learn what “the defend¬ 
ant” meant in Lorraine Trevelyan’s life. Only by 
so learning could he hope to endure an existence 
which promised only many days of lonesomeness 
without her. Better the lonesomeness without prob¬ 
lems and perplexities, than a tiresome round of spec¬ 
ulation on what might have been, if. . . . 

The way seemed open. He pivoted in his chair, 
became again the man with the initiative that had 
won him his present official position, and grew 
voluble. 

“Here’s what we’ll do, if the jury acquits him— 
as it will. We’ll let him go free—and have him 
trailed every minute. Sooner or later, he’ll meet 
Miss Trevelyan, you see?” 


314 


After the Ball 


Young Furey admitted that he saw that far— 
but he concealed the inability to glimpse beyond. 

“When he does meet her, they’ll do something— 
somehow—and we’ll get the answer to it all. See?” 

This time Furey did see. He agreed enthusiasti¬ 
cally to the stratagem. He glowed with excitement 
as Tom proceeded to unfold the details of his plan. 

A court messenger entered the room. 

“The jury’s coming in, sir,” he announced. 

Tom rose from his chair. 

“I’ll leave the details to you,” he told Furey. 
“Now let’s hear the verdict.” 


So the trial really was at an end. Lorraine was 
experiencing a tingling sense as of renewed blood 
circulation, where before she had been numbed by a 
paralysis of anxiety. There was first the suspense of 
watching the jury file into the box; the searching of 
their faces to try to read the result of their delibera¬ 
tions; the agonizing slowness with which the fore¬ 
man had handed the slip of paper bearing the verdict 
to the foreman; the excruciation which had attended 
the delay while the clerk unfolded the paper, cleared 
his voice, and finally began to read the formalities of 
phrases that ran as a preamble to the verdict. 
Finally: 

“We find the defendant not guilty as charged.” 

Somehow she was walking toward the door. 
There had been a bustle and commotion following 
the dismissal of the court and the departure of the 
judge. She had seen, from a corner of her eye, the 
congratulations showered upon Arthur by his at- 


After the Ball 315 

torney. She had not dared to speak to Arthur lest 
she betray him by breaking down. 

Finally, as she had passed toward the aisle she 
had met Tom Stevens face to face, and had walked 
beyond him without a sign of recognition. 

Now she was moving, without volition on her 
part, toward the corridor. Gradually she became 
aware of a lightness in her heart which previously 
she had forgotten. She was beginning to appreciate 
in what great amount the load had been lifted. 
Arthur was free. She could be happy again. Arthur 
was free. She kept telling this to herself, over and 
over. It would take time, she knew, to become con¬ 
vinced of the truth of it all. 

Back in the courtroom, while Arthur was saying 
his farewells to his lawyer, young Mr. Furey was 
issuing instructions to a detective attached to the 
District Attorney’s office. 

“Stick to him,” Tom’s assistant said. “Don’t let 
him get out of sight of you or your partner. When 
anything stirs, be sure to phone the Chief.” 

Arthur started toward the hallway. The detective, 
casually, unostentatiously, followed. 


As usual, Trevelyan Senior was storming. It was 
a Saturday afternoon, and this time the cause of the 
storm was the slowness with which his gout attack 
was disappearing. He could only limp a little; pro¬ 
longed weight upon his foot brought tortures. So 
he stumped and fidgetted up and down the library, 
like a boy kept indoors on a rainy day. 


316 


After the Ball 


Lorraine entered and placed some autumn roses 
upon the center-table. She showed the strain of the 
recent trial and its suspense. She drooped a little. 
Her face, still lovely, was slightly wan and its pallor 
was enhanced by the dark hues of the roses. 

Trevelyan glared sharply at her. 

“You wore yourself out at that fool trial,” he 
asserted. 

Lorraine replied in an effort to humor him. 

“It was a little trying,” she admitted. “Still, it 
wasn’t much for me to do.” 

“And that fine hero of yours,” Trevelyan con¬ 
tinued with withering sarcasm, “I suppose has gone 
scot free. Ever heard from him?” 

“Why, no, Father.” 

“Hadn’t the grace to come and say 'thank you,’ 
did he?” 

“Probably—he couldn’t.” 

“But you could wear yourself out for him!” 

Lorraine threw her arms around Trevelyan and 
then stood off the better to tug at his mustache. It 
was the ancient method she had employed since 
childhood to cajole him into good humor. He 
grinned in spite of himself. Then he added: 

“You’re all I have left now—you mustn’t be care¬ 
less with yourself.” 

“Why, I’m all right, Dad,” Lorraine spoke 
briskly, trying to radiate good health and cheer. But 
Trevelyan was still in his forebodeful mood. He 
sighed heavily. Unwittingly he placed too much 
weight upon the invalid foot. 

“Dammit!” he protested. 


After the Ball 


317 


“Why, Dad!” She rebuked him with a laughing 
frown. “You shouldn’t use such language before 
young ladies.” 

“That’s just it,” he replied petulantly. “I wish—” 

“Yes?” 

“I wish I had my boy.” 

There was a touch of yearning softness in his 
tone which stirred Lorraine’s heart to pity and hope. 
She looked eagerly into her father’s face for some 
sign of less stern an attitude toward the memory of 
Arthur. 

“Do you, Dad?” 

“Do I ? Of course I do! That’s a fool question.” 

Trevelyan was indignant with her for letting him 
betray his softness. But as quickly as his bristling 
fierceness came, so it disappeared. The next mo¬ 
ment he added: 

“Nowadays I realize—well, I’m beginning to 
know that much was my fault, too.” 

“Oh, Dad! Do you mean it?” 

“Indeed I do. If I had him again—things would 
be different—” 

She didn’t dare trust herself with words. Pen¬ 
sively she pretended to re-arrange the roses. 

“If you’d get out in the air, Lorraine Trevelyan, 
like I’m going to do, you’d have some color in your 
face, instead of leaving it all to the roses!” 

With which Parthian shot Trevelyan stumped 
away. Lorraine watched him go with mingled emo¬ 
tions. An idea fearful in its possibilities came to her, 
and she was fascinated with the allurements it un¬ 
folded. She studied deeply. 


318 


After the Ball 


‘Til do it,” she determined, then wheeled, ran to 
her room, and seized the phone. 

Over the whispering wires one night in Arthur’s 
voice had come a number to be used if emergency 
arose. She called this number, in feverish haste now 
that her course was decided, and waited. 

In the fourth floor rear of an obscure furnished 
rooming house Arthur Trevelyan answered the sum¬ 
mons of the telephone bell. As he did so there was 
a similiar action in a room adjoining his. There the 
detective-attache of the District Attorney’s office 
picked up a receiving head-set linked to a telephone 
box whose wires disappeared in the wall separating 
the two houses. Alert, efficient, the detective 
listened. 

All eargerness now, where before she had been 
distrait and listless, Lorraine told Arthur of her 
father’s words. She was glowing with enthusiasm 
and there was a lilt to her voice which struck a re¬ 
sponding chord in Arthur’s heart. 

“Is it really true? Did Dad actually say that?” 

“Indeed he did! And I think, if you and Father 
can meet—” 

“Do you think I dare risk it ?” 

“I’m sure of it,” Lorraine affirmed. 

The detective smiled grimly. Here was what he 
had been waiting for—some sign of assignation, of 
rendezvous. 

“If it only works!” was Arthur’s hope. 

“Of course it will work. Come to the side en¬ 
trance. I’ll let you in, and tell you all about it, and 
then we’ll let him find you talking with me. Hurry!” 


After the Ball 


319 


He hung up the receiver with a haste that made 
the instrument jingle a protest, grabbed his hat, and 
ran out the door. 

Quickly the detective in turn called for a number. 
He was connected with Tom’s office. Tom, wrest¬ 
ling with a maze of “whereases” and “to-wits” in 
dictation to Gilda, answered the call. He harked an 
excited reply when he heard the detective’s message. 

“Keep after him!” he instructed sharply. “Keep 
him spotted all the time. Cover the house. Watch 
for me. I’m on the way!” 

An excited Chief Deputy whirled his chair toward 
his secretary. 

“Get this, Miss Gay! Whatever happens, don’t 
keep out of touch if I should call. I’m going to Miss 
Trevelyan’s home—” 

“To Miss Trevelyan’s! The witness in the Three- 
Finger Murphy case ?” 

“That’s it! I’ll be there! There’s something 
breaking, and it’s what I’ve been waiting for! Stick 
here until you hear from me!” 

He blew out of the office like a cyclone. Gilda 
watched after him in amazement. What on earth at 
the Trevelyan home could make him so excited? 
She wondered if Miss Trevelyan were in dan¬ 
ger. . . . 

“Miss Gay!” 

She looked up, startled, to see the office attache 
in the doorway. 

“There’s a hospital case in the jail, Miss Gay, 
that wants to make a statement,” the attache in¬ 
formed her. 


320 


After the Ball 


“But I can’t leave the office now,” the girl ob¬ 
jected. “It’s Mr. Stevens’ orders.” 

“It’s important, Miss, according to the nurse. It’s 
Murphy—the one who was shot in that hold-up case. 
The nurse says he’s had a turn for the worse, an’ 
wants to see somebody.” 

“But I can’t go away from here—oh, I don’t 
know what to do!” 

“You’d better go, Miss Gay,” the attache urged. 
“I’ll stay here at the phone. If there’s any need, I’ll 
call you.” 

Hurriedly, wondering what it was all about, Gilda 
seized her notebook and pencil, and rushed away. 

Meanwhile, with the detective at his heels, Arthur 
Trevelyan sped homeward to meet his father at 
last. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A RTHUR TREVELYAN leaped up the steps of 
^ the service entrance toward the opened door¬ 
way, where Lorraine was framed in a new radiant 
loveliness. Tier hands were beckoning him back to 
his home. Then their clasps met, and they were 
holding each other in embrace, oblivious to who 
might see. 

From his point of observation the District At¬ 
torney’s detective smiled sourly at the signs of af¬ 
fection. 

“The Chief should have seen that,” he commented 
to himself. “But he’ll hear about it soon enough.” 

Through a rear passageway, across the lower hall 
where he had last been in such tragic circumstances, 
and into the library, Lorraine led her brother. She 
glanced quickly about as they entered the room. 
Mark Trevelyan was not in sight. 

“Dad’s in the garden,” she told Arthur. “He 
limps around, complaining of his gout and the rose- 
bugs.” 

“Are you sure he’ll be glad to see me?” Arthur 
was more uneasy than before about the success of 
this venture, now that the test was soon to come. 

“Of course I’m sure. He’ll be swept off his feet 
with happiness. I know—I can tell from the way 
he speaks. He hasn’t the faintest idea that you are 
still alive.” 


322 


After the Ball 


“You can’t imagine, Lorry, what it means,” he 
told her. “It’s just recently that I’ve begun to feel 
alive again. If I can square myself with Dad, and 
make that part of it all right, I can set about finding 
Gilda, and the baby.” 

“It’s so wonderful to have you free from all that 
trouble and uncertainty of the trial,” she told him. 

“Isn’t it! It seemed to have been hanging over me 
for centuries. And if it hadn’t been for you, I’d be 
doing time again.” 

“Why, I didn’t do anything—” she protested. 

“You did everything! It was your bravery that 
saved me. It was glorious, the way you faced that 
lawyer and denied that you had ever known me—” 

“Was it?” Her reply came faintly. Memories of 
that lie to Tom had been haunting her, helped to 
account for the worry-lines around her shadowed 
eyes. 

“It certainly was! But—why do you suppose he 
asked that question ? Lord! I thought the game was 
up. Do you think he suspected anything?” 

“Suspected?” Lorraine was being confronted 
with a recurrent worry. She knew that if Arthur 
learned how much that lie mattered with her and 
Tom, the happiness of her brother’s freedom would 
be sadly marred. So she saw herself of necessity 
telling another lie to cover up the first. 

“No— I don’t think he suspected anything. 
Probably it was just a chance shot—an effort to find 
something, somewhere.” 

“I suppose so.” Arthur gladly let the matter drop. 
“But now tell me all that Father said.” 


After the Ball 


323 


While Lorraine recounted Trevelyan’s wistful 
longing to have his son returned, another figure 
joined that of the watcher outside the house. The 
detective nodded in salutation as he recognized Tom 
Stevens. 

“We’ve got him spotted here, Chief,” the detec¬ 
tive stated. “He went up to the side entrance, where 
the young woman who testified for him at his trial 
was waiting for him. They were very affectionate 
with each other. Then she took him inside.” 

Tom’s face darkened at the information. It was 
hard for him to convince himself that all these 
things did not concern someone else than the girl 
for whom he still retained this hopeless, torment¬ 
ing love. There remained only to put the finishing 
touch that would despatch for good and all any hope 
that might still linger of happiness for him with her. 

He came to this decision. He would not torment 
himself further—he’d put an end to doubt. 

“You wait here,” he told the detective, harshly. 
“Don’t let him slip away. When I need you I’ll send 
or call for you. I’m going inside.” 

“Be careful, Chief,” the detective warned. “This 
bird has been in two shooting scrapes. Better let 
me go with you.” 

“I’ll take a chance,” Tom Stevens answered 
grimly. “If he does shoot, well—” 

He hurried to the main entrance of the Trevelyan 
home. A maid appeared, and recognized him as a 
former caller on Miss Trevelyan. She ushered him 
into the foyer, where he stood waiting. 

Arthur’s face was alight with the expectation of 
meeting his father. Lorraine’s words had convinced 


324 


After the Ball 


him of Mark Trevelyan’s change of heart; and now 
only remained the exquisite thrill of re-union. . . . 
The maid appeared. 

“It’s Mr. Stevens, Miss,” the maid announced. 

Lorraine’s suddenly whitened face told Arthur 
what she feared. 

“The—the Deputy District Attorney?” he asked 
her. She nodded. 

Lorraine nerved herself to a semblance of out¬ 
ward calm. 

“Tell Mr. Stevens,” she instructed, “that Miss 
Trevelyan is not at home.” 

But the maid lingered. 

“He says it’s important business, Miss Tre¬ 
velyan.” 

Lorraine hesitated. Terrifying fears assailed her. 
Tom’s call could only mean one thing—that Arthur 
was again in jeopardy. She turned impulsively to¬ 
ward her brother. 

“Quick 1” she urged him. “Get out of sight. Here, 
in the next room.” 

“No!” Arthur replied. “I’ll meet him here. He 
can’t do anything.” 

“Oh, he mustn’t see you here,” Lorraine argued. 
“Don’t you understand? We weren’t supposed to 
know each other. Please, won’t you wait inside? 
You can hear, if you like—but be on the safe side.” 

“But I can’t go on hiding all my life!” It was too 
much of the same old routine for Arthur to endure. 
He preferred to face Tom Stevens and thresh out 
what lay ahead. 

“Just once more, Arthur—then everything will be 
all right. Please! Hurry!” 


After the Ball 


325 


Arthur allowed himself to be led into the music- 
room beyond. The maid was still standing where 
Lorraine had forgotten her. Now the distraught 
girl summoned all her courage to her aid. 

“Show Mr. Stevens in.” 

Lorraine was standing, icy and aloof, when Tom 
Stevens entered. He bowed soberly to her. She did 
not offer her hand, or ask him to be seated. On her 
feet, ready for whatever development might occur, 
she spoke with cutting chill. 

“I am indebted for your visit—but to what pur¬ 
pose do I owe it?” 

This was a reception which Tom had not ex¬ 
pected. He did the unexpected, breaking through 
her artificial calm with his protesting words. 

“Why speak like that, Lorraine? You know why 
I have come—” 

“You have had so many unbased ideas—” she 
evaded. 

“Unbased! Unbased, when I learn that the same 
man over whom we quarreled—the same man whom 
I saw kissing you the night of the ball—” 

Arthur, listening intently, started with surprise. 
This was something of which he had not dreamed. 
He drew a little closer to the drapery which sepa¬ 
rated him from the two in the adjoining room. 

“—the same man who was found in your home, 
and whom you so successfully defended at his trial 
—is now in this house after having received your 
affectionate welcome! And you say my ideas are 
unbased!” 

This was pure male jealousy on his part, Lor¬ 
raine was sure; the act of a man driven to desperate 


326 


After the Ball 


lengths by his irrational broodings. If she could 
talk him out of it, shame him into a retreat— 

“So you have stooped to spying on me ?” 

“Not spying on you, Lorraine. I—was not will¬ 
ing, but acquiescent—in your desire to have this 
man to yourself without my encumbering pres¬ 
ence—” 

Arthur’s astonishment grew at realization that 
this man talking to his sister apparently regarded 
him as a rival in love. How complicated the whole 
matter seemed! 

“But when I am involved officially,” Tom con¬ 
tinued, “it is a different matter. You bore false 
witness, relying on your knowledge that I would not 
expose the falsehood.” 

Lorraine could only droop her head. She knew 
the reproof was justified. 

“You expected me to shield you in the courtroom. 
You knew I would do so, and you took advantage.” 

(The lie was coming home to roost with a ven¬ 
geance !) 

“You must admit that I have a right to an ex¬ 
planation.” 

It was an intolerable situation. She could see 
only one way out: to tear to shreds what little un¬ 
blemished opinion he still had of her, and brazen it 
out until he left in disgust. She took the plunge. 

“Very well!” she suddenly flared. “Since you 
insist—your ideas are correct. It is true that this 
man is dear to me—dearer than you, or anyone else 
—can ever be!” (Thank God she did not have to lie 
about this!) “Why wouldn’t I lie, do anything, to 
help him!” 


After the Ball 


327 


Tom shrank back, dizzy with shock. He had not 
expected that the Lorraine he knew could be so ve¬ 
hement. He was stunned and sick at heart. Now 
that he had brought this upon himself, he regretted 
having done so. He could sense only a loss of every¬ 
thing. Nothing now mattered. 

“Very well,” he responded, dully. “That seems to 
be definite enough.” 

She was thankful that he did not look toward her 
for confirmation of his implied question. 

“You leave me no choice,” he added. “I must in¬ 
form you that this person for whom you have gone 
to such great lengths is an escaped Sing Sing con¬ 
vict—” 

“Oh-h-h!” 

It was as if he had struck her. She seemed to 
wilt, like a flower exposed to sudden, scorching 
flame. 

“I’m sorry.” He could not help being torn by 
the anguish in her face. “I am not saying this just 
to cause you pain. It is an office matter.” 

“You—you knew?” 

“All the time!” 

“And you have tortured us by letting him go, by 
playing as a cat does with a mouse? Oh! How 
could you have the cruelty?” 

“I have not been playing. It was, as I say, an 
office matter, and one of duty. The man is an of¬ 
fender against the State.” 

“But why do you come now, after apparently 
everything was going to be all right, to tell me this?” 

“Can’t you see?” He hated to have to tell her in 
cold blood. 


328 


After the Ball 


“You mean?” She was in cold terror. 

“Yes—I have come to take him back.” 

“Tom! Tom Stevens! You wouldn’t do that! 
You couldn't! You couldn’t hurt me so! It would 
kill me! Why, I—I couldn’t live!” 

She had forgotten her role of a brazen admission 
of a love-affair, and was pleading, genuinely now, 
for her brother’s safety, unmindful of course that 
Tom could only see a woman fighting to save her 
sweetheart. 

“Tom! It doesn’t matter what you think about 
me—oh! it does matter, but I can’t help it! But 
don’t take him away! You’ve told me you loved 
me—think, Tom! Think what you’re doing to that 
person whom you told you loved!” 

She was beside herself with agitation. She was 
clinging to his hand. The tears were streaming 
down her face unrestrained. 

He drew back. The situation was becoming im¬ 
possible. He must do something, say something, to 
bring her to herself. 

“Please!” he interrupted. “I have read of such 
things—and if I could comply I would do so to save 
you all this—” 

“Won’t you? Won’t you, Tom?” 

Very well. He must shock her with words. 

“It is amusing, isn’t it ?” He was speaking delib¬ 
erately, choosing his phrases with care. “Quite a 
situation—a woman begging her former sweetheart 
to stultify himself and save her present—lover!” 

The thing had the sting of a whip-crack. Lor¬ 
raine felt beaten, bruised. 

“Tom—I can’t—please—” 


After the Ball 


329 


“Wait a minute!” 

The new voice in the room brought Tom’s head 
up sharply. He looked toward the music-room and 
glimpsed the man of whom he had been talking. 
Here was a species of effrontery with which he could 
deal. 

It was a determined, commanding Arthur who 
advanced toward Tom Stevens. The two men—one 
a brother indignant at the torture to which his sister 
was being put, the other enraged at being confronted 
by an apparently successful rival—each braced him¬ 
self for the impact of blow that seemed about to 
come. 

“I would retire in your favor—if I could.” Tom 
spoke icily. “Unfortunately, I am compelled to re¬ 
main in your company. I’m sorry if it annoys— 
Miss Trevelyan.” 

“Stop that!” Arthur’s voice compelled obedience. 
“That will be all along that line.” 

Tom looked up, surprised at the tone of righteous¬ 
ness in Arthur’s voice. 

“I know now,” Arthur began, “why you asked 
her if she had ever seen me before the night of the 
shooting. I didn’t realize—” he turned to Lorraine. 
“I didn’t understand, Lorry, that I was the cause of 
your broken engagement—” 

Lorraine moved a hand wearily. That was so 
small a part of the whole dismal muddle. 

“But I do understand why she let you think—she 
was trying to shield me, because if you learned who 
I was, you would learn that I was a convict—that I 
had escaped. She wanted to save me, that was all.” 


330 


After the Ball 


“Naturally.” Tom wondered why this man was 
stating such obvious things. 

“She wanted to save me—and couldn’t justify 
herself without disclosing my identity. It’s all mixed 
up. You don’t need to know now, but it is a long 
matter. But I’ll tell you this: she wanted to save 
me because—” 

“Arthur!” Lorraine’s voice cut in pleadingly. 
“Don’t! Don’t ruin yourself at my expense.” 

“It’s all right, dear,” replied Arthur evenly. “It’s 
just as well to get it over with. It’s because—” he 
resumed his attention to Tom, “I am her brother 

“What!” 

“It’s true.” 

“Lorraine, tell me!” Tom, all at sea, overwhelmed 
with the news, turned anxiously toward Lorraine. 
“Is that why you let me think—” 

Lorraine nodded. It was an effort to move. 

“And I accused you! I’ve said these things! Oh, 
Lorraine! I’m not worth—why, I’m beneath your 
feet! Is that why you asked me to wait ?” 

Again the nod, dispirited. 

“And I wouldn’t trust you! I—I—oh, no wonder 
you must hate me!” 

She shook her head. “I don’t hate you—only—” 

“Don’t you, truly? Can you forgive me at all?” 

“Yes—I can.” 

“And you!” Tom swung toward Arthur. “I’ve 
heard so much about you—I’ve thought you were 
dead—I don’t understand it all—and now to have 
to take you back to prison—” 

“Tom—you don’t mean you still will do that?” 


After the Ball 331 

It was Lorraine speaking. She had forgotten all 
about the prison angle. 

“I’ve—got to.” 

“And you say you love me?” 

“Oh, I do—now more than ever! But I must—” 

“Oh, you’re hateful! I despise you!” 

“Here, what’s all this?” 

Mark Trevelyan’s booming voice echoed through 
the room. He stood inside the doorway, poised on 
one foot, balancing himself with his cane. The 
others turned to face him, and then Mark Trevelyan 
forgot about his gout. 

“My boy! My son! Arthur!” 

He flung away his cane, and it twirled clattering 
into a corner. For a step or two he tried to hobble 
over, but this means of locomotion was too slow. 
He hopped, took a stride or two, then ran to where 
his son, with arms outstretched, awaited him. 

“My boy! My boy!” 

Father and son, they stood with arms wrapped 
around shoulders and with cheeks pressed firmly to¬ 
gether. Mark Trevelyan was sniffling and choking 
in a spluttering effort to keep back the tears; finally 
he gave up the effort unashamed. 

“My boy! My only son! Back home!” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T N THE hospital wing of the county jail Gilda 
A Gay sat at the bedside of Three-Finger Murphy, 
who lay on the cot feebly speaking the words which 
Gilda’s flying fingers were recording. At the foot of 
the bed stood a nurse, while an interne, on the other 
side of the bed, frequently felt Murphy’s pulse for 
signs of weakening. 

There had been a rambling, half-delirious recital 
of Murphy’s early antecedents and criminal career. 
The words automatically became transformed into 
pothooks and dashes under Gilda’s guidance. Her 
thoughts were elsewhere. 

Suddenly she found herself becoming increasingly 
engrossed in what the dying man was saying. There 
was a suggestion of something familiar, of matters 
of which she had heard vaguely, in his account. 

“—and I knew all along,” Murphy struggled to 
say, “that the bird they pinched had nothin’ to do 
with the shootin’ in Central Park—it was me. I had 
a pal, an’ he tried to give me th’ gate—and I bumped 
him. It was him or me-—” 

Gilda’s mind was leaping backward over the years 
to the time when she and Arthur were in New 
York— 

Wheezing, pausing to gather strength for enun¬ 
ciation, Murphy continued: 

“The only way I can figure it out is that the bird 
I bumped off—this Soapy—must have changed 


After the Ball 


333 


clothes with someone to throw me off his track— 
and that’s how he got this Arthur Trevelyan’s 
clothes : —and when they found Soapy dead they 
must have doped it out his name was Trevelyan.” 

Gilda’s head swam. It had all come so suddenly 
—so clarifyingly. The mention of her husband’s 
name—the wonderful, the fearful suggestion that 
Arthur was not dead, or at least, that the grave she 
had visited was not his— 

“Oh, hurry! Please! Go on!” 

The nurse looked at her in astonishment at this 
unbusiness-like outburst and placed a warning finger 
to her lips. But Gilda was all intent upon what 
Murphy was saying: 

“The bird they pinched must have been Trevel¬ 
yan, ’cause I run into him in Sing Sing, where he 
was doin’ time. . . . And we made a break from 
there together, an’ come out here—” 

Out here! Here, in the same city with her? 

“Yes, an’ I thought he’d come in good for me, 
an’ so I stuck tight to him—an’ I followed him to 
that house—an’ I see now it must ha’ been his home 
—an’ when I come in the room to grab that stuff 
they told about at the trial, he come runnin’ in, an’ 
we had a fight, an’—” 

Murphy’s voice trailed off to nothingness. But 
he had said enough. 

The interne was saying: 

“I wouldn’t press him any more, Miss Gay,” but 
Gilda did not hear. She was running, breathlessly, 
through a corridor and out of the county building. 
There was a taxi at the curb. She breathed an 


334 After the Ball 

address and sank back, exhausted, upon the cush¬ 
ions. 


Breathlessly, subjected to a thousand interjec¬ 
tions and questions, Arthur had told Mark Trevel¬ 
yan of all that had befallen him since the momentous 
night in New York City when he had strolled into 
Central Park. Over and over again, as if to assure 
himself that his son were really here with him in 
the flesh, Mark Trevelyan had made sure of details 
—details which had alike opened the eyes of under¬ 
standing for Trevelyan, Senior, and Tom Stevens. 
. . . But Lorraine knew what still impended. 

Now Mark Trevelyan puffed fiercely with hap¬ 
piness and overflowing relief. 

“Well, I’ll be—well, I’ll—well—what a time 
you’ve had!” He concluded his summary lamely, 
and then beamed at Arthur. 

“But it’s all right now, anyway. You’re home, 
and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” 

Something reticent in Arthur’s rejoinder made 
him wonder. 

“Isn’t it all right? Isn’t it?” 

Arthur looked at Tom. Tom looked at Lorraine, 
who steadily returned his gaze. Finally Tom was 
forced to speak. 

“Well, you see—there’s that matter of the un¬ 
served Sing Sing sentence—” 

“Nonsense! Nothing but red tape!” Mark Tre¬ 
velyan felt highly contemptuous of prison formal¬ 
ities. 


After the Ball 


335 


tf Unfortunately—” Tom Stevens shook his head. 
“Unfortunately the extradition papers already have 
been signed. I’m afraid they must go through.” 

“What! You mean to say my son must go back 
and be a—a—a jailbird?” 

Tom was silent, assenting. 

“But that’s ridiculous!” said Mark Trevelyan. 
“The boy is innocent! Why should he be in prison ?” 

“The trouble is,” said Tom, “that we can’t prove 
him innocent.” 

“Of course we can! Why, I’ll hire every lawyer 
who ever read Blackstone!” 

“You see, he’s already been convicted.” Tom’s 
point of view was unanswerable. “God knows I’d 
do anything I could—but it isn’t in my hands. New 
York will have something to say—” 

“Bosh! New York’s three thousand miles away.” 

“But it reaches far.” 

A new thought came to Arthur’s father. 

“A pardon—couldn’t we manage that ?” 

“Oh, yes, Tom! A pardon! That’s the thing! 
And you have such influence!” Immediately Lor¬ 
raine had lost all her antagonism to Tom. 

“We might—possibly,” Tom replied cautiously, 
“but meanwhile the State must act.” 

“Tom, you’re obstinate!” Lorraine was being 
vexed at his obtuseness, just when so little would 
have brought her, melting, into his arms. . . 

“No, Tom is right.” Arthur entered the discus¬ 
sion. “What Tom says is true. I’ve got to go back 
—I can see that. Then, whatever can be done out¬ 
side—” 


336 


After the Ball 


“But oh, Arthur!” Lorraine wailed. “You're not 
going back to that prison?” 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to, dear.” 

“Oh-h-h-h!” Here they were, she saw, up against 
the same old stone wall. An idea came. 

“But you were going back once before, and then 
I told you about your wife, and your baby, and said 
you must find them—” 

“My Lord!” 

Tom’s exclamation broke in upon the argument. 

“I’d forgotten all about it!” 

“Forgotten what?” They turned half curiously, 
half in dread, to learn what next was to be told. 

“About her—she’s in my office!” 

“In your office?” 

“Yes—Arthur’s wife—I promised her I wouldn’t 
tell—she’s working in my office!” 

“Oh, no, she isn’t!” 

Gilda Gay stepped into the room. She had 
brushed past the maid, attracted by the voices in the 
library, and now stood before them, glowing, beau¬ 
tiful. 

The eyes of the four took in the glorious picture 
of the woman who came bearing word of such im¬ 
portance that her features shone. But her eyes were 
only for Arthur. Before he could realize what was 
happening she ran across the room, gave a little cry 
of ecstasy and threw herself into his arms. 

“H-m-m-m!” mused Mark Trevelyan, when he 
had recovered from the astonishment of recogniz¬ 
ing this young woman whom he had met first amid 
the debris of a smashed-up milk wagon: 


After the Ball 337 

“I think this is a matter in which explanations can 
wait.” 

“I think so, too,” responded Tom. “Don’t you, 
Lorraine?” 

“Well—if you say so. I believe I’ll let you decide.” 


Trust Tom to have attended to the legal formal¬ 
ities which extricated, once and for all, his brother- 
in-law-to-be from all the enmeshing snarls that had 
been woven around him. Trust Lorraine to have 
dispelled forever whatever doubts still lingered of 
her love for him. Be sure Gilda more than made up 
to Arthur for all the long years in which they had 
been separated, and be sure, too, that Eve did find a 
sequel, a happy ending, to the story Tom Stevens 
had told her when they listened to the organ- 
grinder. Trust Mark Trevelyan to have carried 
their first joyous dinner together to a conclusion 
replete with a sensation of physical and emotional 
well-being. 

Eve Trevelyan was exploring this big house 
which she was finding out to be her home. She 
stepped experimentally into the music room. 

“Tell me,” she heard Tom Stevens saying to Lor¬ 
raine, “are you sure you can still love me—after 
everything?” 

“Oh, yes!” Lorraine was breathing, “you were a 
man—often a hateful one, but a man!” 

This was silly, Eve decided. It was obvious to 


338 After the Ball 

her, without Lorraine’s words, that Mr. Tom was a 
man. 

Her exploration led her to a corner of the foyer. 
Here were her muvver and her newly acquired 
daddy. 

“Do you remember, dear ?” her daddy was saying, 
“when we first came in here, and how frightened 
you were ?” 

Her mother was giggling a little. 

“Yes,” Gilda was saying, “and how we stole 
downstairs, afraid to meet your father? That won¬ 
derful father of yours!” 

Eve couldn’t see any reason why anyone should 
fear her daddy’s father. She decided to determine 
for herself whether his bristly mustache was dan¬ 
gerous. 

Somehow Mark Trevelyan was still feeling lone¬ 
some. These young people—they were so interested 
in themselves and each other. After all, he had been 
left behind in the race. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Eve announced. 

Mark Trevelyan thought she was playing a game. 
He joined in it. He made his mustache bristle out 
at her, and growled through the whiskers. 

“See! I’ll show you!” 

She climbed up on his lap and recklessly pressed 
the palm of her hand against the white menace upon 
his lap. Only a comforting stiffness met her touch. 
He kissed the petal-like palm tenderly. 

“Now tell me a story,” she commanded. 

“Well,” Mark Trevelyan began, “once upon a 
time there was an old man—” 


After the Ball 


339 


“Like you?” she interrupted. 

“Yes, dear, an old man like me ... . and he had 
a son. . . 


The Weaver at the Loom was still. Before him 
was the tapestry—his finished work. His pattern 
was complete. Warp and woof, fibre against fibre, 
color merged with color, the job was done. There 
were raw materials waiting for another. 

“Not so good,” the Weaver mused. “Not so bad. 
But kind of human. We’ll look it over when morn¬ 
ing comes.” 


THE END 




♦ 

















































































I 


























Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
Ill Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 




























































